


take the long way home

by dothraki_shieldmaiden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, B&B In Vermont (Supernatural), Brief Scene of dub-con, Brief Scene of self-harm, DCBB, Dean/Cas Big Bang, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2019 (Supernatural), Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Healing, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hunter Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Post Season 15, Post Series, References to Depression, Retired Hunter Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 04:03:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 95,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21421882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden
Summary: Three months ago, when Dean decided to retire, he thought his life was going to end up differently. He'd thought that he might get to have it all, Sam, Cas, Jack, and nice little place to live. Instead he gets Sam and Jack off on their Summer of Love Tour, radio silence from Cas, and a never-ending road trip consisting of himself.Still reeling from the loss of his grace, Castiel travels the country in search of hunts. Driven by a need to prove his usefulness, he pushes himself beyond all limits of endurance.Together, with the help of a few friends, a crumbling Victorian house, and a stray cat, Dean and Castiel patch themselves back together and create a home together.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Rowena MacLeod/Sam Winchester
Comments: 227
Kudos: 594
Collections: DCBB 2019, Mixtape Book Club Podcast - Discussed Fics, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. lost and alone

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my contribution to the DCBB 2019! It was a work of time, tears, toil, but also love. Lots and lots of love. 
> 
> *I started writing this before Season 15 started airing, so it's been thoroughly Jossed. But honestly, I think that this is better. At least a little bit happier. =)
> 
> My amazing author is czarcaustic--Be sure to check them out and give them lots and lots of love!

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185495911@N02/49060782772/in/shares-05899M/)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dean first finds the house in the midst of a torrential downpour. Later, in hindsight, he’ll look at the series of events leading him there, and everything that happened afterward, and think that there was some sort of divine providence watching over him. At the time, when he’s inches away from running off the road, everything in his life comes as a huge inconvenience.

He first comes across the house while he’s driving through Vermont, halfway through his road trip to nowhere. That’s actually a lie--there’s no end in sight to this particular jaunt. There’s only him, Baby, and two double yellow lines. What’s an ex-hunter to do?

The decision had been made after their last, disastrous hunt, one that ended with blood and pain, with Sam’s broken arm, and Dean barely conscious after a nasty run-in with a concrete wall. Cas’ terror-stricken eyes and the sluggish panic as Dean realized that there was too much blood on Cas’ hands, too much to come from either him or Sam. The dark stain spreading across Cas’ side, Jack’s terrified questions--

It had been close. Too close. They’d limped back to the bunker, Cas had disappeared into his room, and he and Sam had convened in the kitchen. Just from the look that was on Sam’s face, Dean could guess where this conversation was headed.

He agreed with Sam, he really did. _We’re not young anymore, we need to get out while we still can, end on a high note_. Sam trotted out all the cliches and put them through their paces like prize ponies, one after the other. Dean played his part, nodded and hummed, and had been nowhere near convinced. But then Sam had sighed, elbows on the table, and looked plaintively at Dean.

“Do you really want to be doing this for another ten years?”

Dean’s mouth fell open, ready for a witty one-liner, when it suddenly hit him: No.

He didn’t want to hunt anymore.

He looked around the bunker, their home for almost the last decade, and all he could see were the faces of people that they’d lost: Kevin, his eyes burnt out, lying dead next to the bookshelves. Charlie, head thrown back in laughter at the table, right before she was butchered and left in a bathtub like rubbish. God, even Crowley, the smarmy little dick, made an appearance. And Mom, Mom...Dean’s fingers traced over the initials carved into the table and remembered the pain, the agony that kept him awake for months on end, shredding at the edges of his sanity until he thought that he would scream from the pain of it.

He thought of the little family he had left, bloody and bruised after this last hunt, how goddamn close it had been. It left his chest aching and empty, and with it came the realization, a little less strong, but no less insistent. He didn’t want to be living this life until everyone he knew was dead.

He had Sam, he had Jack, and he had Cas. If he could make it out with those three, then he’d call that a win.

Except he doesn’t have Sam, he doesn’t have Jack, and he doesn’t have Cas. All he has is his car, a dwindling supply of jerky, and a storm which threatens to push him off the road.

He curses as the Impala hydroplanes, front end swerving wildly until he wrestles her under control. Rain lashes the windows so badly that the wipers can’t keep up and he starts looking for a place to pull off. This is the kind of storm that you wait out.

He finds his opportunity in the form of a gravel drive, almost invisible from the road. It’s pure luck that his headlights manage to catch it. He breathes a sigh of relief as his tires crunch over the road, even though thin branches threaten to obscure the narrow drive. He winces at the high screech they make against his paint job, but he’ll take that over potentially flipping his car any day.

The headlights illuminate a small clearing. In the distance there’s an impression of a dilapidated porch, a collapsing house. Dean’s content to let it remain an impression without ever investigating further. Baby’s walls have sheltered him through monsters, apocalypses, and death itself. A storm, even a severe one, poses little problem for his best girl.

Dean puts the car in park before he stretches out in the front seat. His hand fumbles in the backseat, unerringly finding the cooler in the floorboard. He grabs a beer, flicks off the lingering condensation and drinks. Here, for a minute, he can almost convince himself that he’s waiting for Sam, that he’s going to fall asleep with the sounds of his brother’s light snores in his ears. Annoying yeah, but for Dean the sounds of Sam’s snuffling breaths work better than any white noise machine.

Nothing but silence in the Impala. Dean sighs, takes another sip of his beer. He flicks on the flashlight, thinking that he might read until he passes out. There are several tattered paperbacks clogging up his duffel bag that he wants to go through, but instead he reaches for his phone.

Old habits die hard and he checks his voicemails first. Nothing, not even a question about the best way to gank a rugaru. Dean tries not to feel offended. Yeah, he retired but he still thinks that he should be relevant. Like Obama.

He checks his texts next. These yield slightly better results. One is from Claire, telling him that she made it into Houston all right, and that she’s going to start tracking down the vamp’s nest tomorrow. A nostalgic smile drifts across Dean’s face. He and Sam might be out of the game but he doesn’t know if Claire can get out, or if she even wants to.

There’s a message from Sam waiting. He waxes on for several lines about the sights and hiking to be found in the Pacific Northwest. In the middle of New England, Dean winces and tries not to think about how a whole continent separates him and Sam. Not even Sam’s assurances that Jack’s having the time of his life erase the uncomfortable twinge in his chest.

So Claire’s out playing Buffy Version 2.0, Sam and Jack are probably two joints away from cementing their status as hippies, and Cas...Well no one really knows where Cas is.

Dean puts down his phone, glances at it, and ignores it. To distract himself, he reaches into his bag and finds a dog-eared copy of Breakfast of Champions. He makes it through half a page when he realizes that he hasn’t understood a word of what he’s read.

His phone sits next to him, harmless as a sleeping viper. Dean’s fingers itch.

With a half-uttered curse he grabs his phone and skims through his messages. He opens up the conversation between him and Cas, if it could be termed that. Generally speaking, when one person is doing all the talking, that’s known as a lecture or shouting into the abyss.

It’s all a line of unanswered messages from him to Cas.

_ **Heard that you were in Montana hunting a wendigo. Let me know how it went.** _

_ **How’d that poltergeist go? You headed back to the bunker or did you grab another case?** _

_ **Cas give me something here. We’re all worried about you.** _

_ **Cas, Jackson says that he ran into you in Wyoming. Going after a vamp nest on your own? That’s reckless, even for you.** _

_ **Look I’m sorry about earlier. We’re just worried.** _

_ **Are you mad?** _

_ **Please, just text someone and let us know that you’re alright.** _

It’s been a week since he last tried to text Cas. He’s typed out several messages but never sent them; they were rejected as either too bitter or too clingy. Every one made Dean feel akin to a teenage girl. But here, in the safe confines of the Impala, his thumbs are antsy and he can’t remember what was keeping him from texting Cas in the first place.

The message he finally sends is simple and to the point, not unlike the other messages he’s left for him. Maybe, by some stroke of a miracle, this one will get through.

_ **Hey man, it’s been a while since we’ve heard anything from you. Just drop us a line and let us know that you’re ok.** _

Dean would like to think that he would know if something happened to Cas. That if he were hurt, there would be some little quirk in the universe to let him know. Realistically, he knows that Cas could be lying dead in the middle of the wilderness and he’d never in his life know about it.

Humans are so fragile.

The knowledge of wasted years moves his thumb across the screen and presses ‘send’ before Dean has a chance to think.

_ **I miss you.** _

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Castiel will never understand the attachment to places Dean likes to call ‘dive bars’. In Castiel’s experience, they are loud, messy, chaotic places, where inequity and violence thrive. The stench and noise cling to him long after he’s left and it takes him long minutes in the shower to return to what passes for normalcy.

But hunters frequent these places like members of a congregation seeking salvation, so after a hunt Castiel braves the press of humanity to grab a seat at the sticky bar. He makes eye contact with the bartender, a weathered man whose eyes reflect a dim interest in his surroundings, and nods. “Whatever you have on tap,” he says, answering the silent question. He’s heard Dean say that before, and while it might not get him the best beer, it’s guaranteed to get him a beer.

He doesn’t particularly like the taste of beer, but he’s well-versed enough in human rituals to know that the act of going to a bar and having a beer is important among the hunter community. And while it’s not necessary that these men and women like him, his life goes easier when they’re not actively suspicious of him. And if having a beer means that they accept him into their confidence then, well. He’s done worse for less.

Raising the bottle to his lips, Castiel looks around the bar. It is dark, like almost all of these bars are, the corners hidden in shadows. A jukebox blares, not with the music that Dean likes to listen to, but with twangy instruments. The singer, a woman, warbles about a lost love. Castiel listens to the words and the emotion behind them and feels something painful hook into the vulnerable spot behind his ribs.

He’s always liked music. Even in the days before he was officially assigned to Earth, he would sometimes float and listen to the melodies that humans created. Here, more than anything else, even their prayers, did they resemble the divine. Contrary to almost every single piece of propaganda Castiel’s seen, as well as Dean Winchester’s oft-unsavory jokes, angels don’t create music. You have to have a soul to do that.

Now, ever since...Since, Castiel’s found a new appreciation for music. He feels it in his chest, as well as in his head. The beat pulls at his extremities, sends them to moving. He remembers being in the Impala, his fingers tapping in time with the music playing through the car’s stereo. Dean complained that he couldn’t keep a beat. Castiel replied that he was fairly certain that he wasn’t meant to be the sole possessor of such an ephemeral substance. Dean had rolled his eyes, said _that’s not the damn point man, why do you always have to do that shit, you’re ruining the song when you’re back there clapping away like a frigging idiot_...Castiel had let Dean’s diatribe fade into the faint background fuzz that always seemed to be playing, while he ruminated on the main points, hidden between the complaints.

He didn’t belong. No matter how much he tried, he would never belong.

The song abruptly switches to something more jarring, a man’s voice singing about alcoholic beverages and his truck. If Castiel had learned correctly, then those were two items which should never be mixed, but it’s possible that he was incorrect. After all, Dean mixes the two with few ill effects.

Castiel finishes off his bottle and contemplates the empty glass for a moment before signaling to the bartender. He should be careful; he doesn’t have near the tolerance that he used to. Of course, he still possesses more than the average human, but still. Best to be careful.

After he takes a cautious sip, Castiel becomes aware of a prickling on the back of his neck. He. takes a casual look around the bar, aware of the angel blade tucked into the sleeve of his jacket, as well as the knife pressed to his ankle. _You gotta learn how to use a gun man_, Dean had told him, too many times to count, and Castiel had listened and learned, but he still craved the comfort of a blade.

He finally meets the gaze of a young woman. Her dark hair blends in with the shadows, but her skin is almost luminescent. Against the pale backdrop of her face, her eyes are like deep pools, dragging him in. Castiel reaches for what little sense of grace he has left and senses nothing else other than plain, ordinary human. It doesn’t mean much. He has slightly better intuition than a regular hunter, but nothing more than that. It averages out to him just being very lucky. So far that’s been enough.

The woman smiles, her lips curving in a blatant invitation. Castiel blinks, throat clenching around a swallow. Despite his years on earth, he’s still not used to the intricacies of human mating rituals, but this at least seems straightforward enough. He slides off his stool and walks towards her. Her smile widens as he stands before her.

He doesn’t make an impressive picture. Hunting leaves little time for personal grooming and several day’s worth of beard covers his jawline. Peach fuzz, Dean would call it, but it’s nothing quite as delicate as that description would imply. His hair is greasy and untamed. Dirt and other, less savory, material stains the knees of his jeans and the elbows of his jacket. But the woman doesn’t seem to care.

Every one of Castiel’s senses are on high alert as she reaches out to tug playfully at the cuff of his jacket, but he senses nothing. Perhaps there’s nothing to sense. Perhaps he just has to rely on his own observations, like all other humans.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” the woman says. Her fingertips slide underneath the cuff of his jacket and shirt, to brush against bare skin. Surely, there would be something. Surely he would feel the tang of hellfire. Surely he’s allowed that little bit. “You just passing through?”

Castiel nods. He’s not Dean and Sam; he can’t manufacture backgrounds for himself. The best he can come up with is, “I’m here to do a job. Once it’s done, I’ll be moving on.”

The woman smiles, her fingers wrapping around Castiel’s wrist in a loose hold. There’s sadness in her eyes and the faint lines bracketing her mouth. “Seems like that’s everyone’s story,” and there’s more to that statement than Castiel can ever hope to fathom, but he can’t divine the history behind her words. Once, he could have seen her soul with a mere glance. But now, he can only rely on his pitiful human eyes and his meager knowledge of human social norms.

“I’m Breanna,” the woman says, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. Castiel is aware that this is a flirtation, but he’s not sure how to respond.

“I’m...Cas,” he says, finally deciding on the simplest response.

“Cas? That short for something?”

Castiel closes his eyes for the briefest of moments. Thousands of memories flash behind his eyelids--the Heavenly Host, blinding in their fury, humans singing their praises through throats bleeding from the honor, his wings snapping in the ether, worlds shifting and merging. _Castiel_, the souls had cried, _Castiel, Castiel_, sung across the skies--

“No,” he says, forcing his lips into a sad smile. “It’s just Cas.”

“All right, just Cas, forgive the line, but what brings a guy like you to a place like this? No offense, but uh,” Breanna laughs, and it’s a genuine clear sound, like a mountain spring, and Cas can’t help but smile in response to it, “you don’t really look the type to be hanging out here.”

“And what is the type to,” Castiel’s mouth stumbles over the unfamiliar slang, “hang out here?”

Breanna shrugs and smiles. “Broke, rundown.” She forces a smile that doesn’t reach her dark eyes. “Hopeless.”

Castiel feels that describes him perfectly, and says so. Breanna blinks, taken aback, before narrowing her eyes. “No,” she tells him, after a few moments consideration, “you aren’t. You...you look like you have someplace to go back to.”

Something raw and painful, an unwelcome reminder of humanity, catches in Castiel’s chest. Someplace to go back to. He remembers the bunker, Dean showing him, Hey, this room is yours for whenever you stop by—I know you don’t sleep man, just take the stupid thing—The small curl of happiness in his chest as he would place something on the desk, knowing that it was his. The simple pleasure of possessions unheard of for an angel of the garrison.

But Dean, Sam, and Jack have left the bunker, their rooms given up as other hunters use the space as lodging, and any peace that Castiel once found there left along with them.

“I don’t.” The words leave oozing sores in his mouth with their honesty. “Not anymore.”

Breanna shrugs. “Doesn’t always have to be a place. Sometimes it’s a person.”

Castiel’s mind automatically flicks to green eyes and a reckless grin, long sturdy fingers wrapped around the hilt of a knife or the long steel of a wrench. Dean pressing a beer bottle against his shoulder in a silent invitation, Dean with blood running down his cheek and wrist. Dean and the bundle of unanswered messages on his phone.

He doesn’t mean to ignore him. He just needs time.

“Thought so,” Breanna says, quiet. “There’s always someone else.” Her eyes, when they meet Castiel’s, are understanding. “What’s her name?”

“Dean,” Castiel answers without thinking. “His name is Dean.”

There’s an awkward pause. Castiel doesn’t understand human mores about sexuality, but he knows that there is a certain danger in admitting his preferences.

He needn’t have worried. Breanna blinks, her brow furrowing in confusion, before her lips tilt in a crooked smile. “Why aren’t you with him now?”

Castiel pauses. He has asked himself that question many times. He knows that he would have had a place with Sam and Jack, perhaps even with Dean. They call him and leave him messages, but he cannot shake the memories that come to him in the dim greyness of sleep. Dean’s face, white except for the bright crimson rivulets, Sam’s arm dangling at an unnatural angle, Jack’s terrified eyes on them all.

“I needed space,” Castiel finally answers. It is a very human answer—simultaneously truthful and evasive.

“You should go back to him. If you have someone waiting for you then you shouldn’t waste it.”

“Maybe so.” He pulls himself out of his thoughts and looks at the woman in front of him. She is young, now that he bothers to examine her, far too young to look so careworn. He feels, not for the first time, unbearably selfish. “What about you?”

She shrugs, affecting a nonchalance that doesn’t reach either her eyes or her smile. “Keep on keeping on I guess. Never stop grinding.”

The answer reminds him so unexpectedly of Dean that Castiel reaches out and brushes his fingers across her jaw before he can stop himself. It’s beyond presumptuous, something that Sam would call _inappropriate_ and something that Dean would call _creepy as shit_, but Breanna neither slaps him nor runs. Instead, she leans into the touch, her lips parting ever so slightly.

The kiss she presses to his lips is soft and beyond chaste. It feels like a benediction, like the absolution that monks of old would press into penitent’s skin after they had made their confessions. Castiel’s fingers, with dirt encrusted nails, curve around the cut of her jaw. Breanna’s gentle fingers brush through the scruff of his cheek.

He has no grace left to give, no more magic in him, but he can breathe a swift prayer into the air. _Please_, he whispers into the subtle wind, _please let her find happiness. Let her find peace_.

Their lips part and separate. Breanna takes a step back, her eyes wide. She runs a shaking thumb underneath the swell of her lower lip before she smiles, dazed. “Holy hell,” she says, barely audible over the raucous music. “Dean’s a lucky guy.”

Castiel thinks of the misery and death that have followed Dean throughout his life. Then he thinks of the many people who have loved Dean, the happiness that he and Sam have managed to wrest from disaster. “Perhaps,” he acedes. Perhaps, in their own convoluted, complicated way, they’re all just incredibly lucky.

The thought sends an ache of melancholy spiraling through him, along with the pervasive feeling that he doesn’t belong here. He has an inkling where he belongs--green eyes bracketed by spiderwebs of fine lines, freckled skin and strong hands, sturdy shoulders and bowed legs--Castiel’s mouth twists upward at the thought. “I...I have to go,” he tells Breanna.

When Breanna smiles the years drop away until she’s little more than a young girl, jubilant at the prospect of life. “Good luck,” she says, before she stretches forward and places a kiss on his cheek, right above where his beard begins. “Don’t waste time.”

Castiel blinks and she is gone, vanished into the dark press of bodies like she was never there at all. He goes back to the bar and settles his tab before he exits into the hot, dry night of the Nevada spring.

In his back pocket his phone buzzes. Castiel fumbles it out, thumbing at the screen. It might be another hunter, telling him about a case. It might be Jody, informing him of the latest happenings. Somehow, he knows that it’s neither of these.

Two messages from Dean. He ignores the burn in his chest, the happy little leap of his heart and instead focuses on the words. The first message is like most of the others he’s gotten from Dean: careful and deliberately inoffensive. The second message however, makes him catch his breath and bite his lip to stop the small grin spreading across his face.

_**I miss you**_.

Castiel stares at the words for a second longer before he carefully puts his phone back in his pocket.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The morning dawns, clear and bright. Dean shifts in the front seat, groaning as his neck creaks. Yeah, he’s way too old to be sleeping in the car.

He sits up and fumbles at the door handle. The door swings open and Dean falls out of the car. The fresh scent of recent rain fills his lungs and Dean sucks in a welcome breath. The sun hasn’t reached its zenith yet and dew still covers the grass, turning the toes of his boots dark as he walks. The morning feels like a new beginning. It feels like hope.

Dean turns and looks at the house. In the morning light it’s not nearly as ramshackle and rundown as he’d first thought. The porch definitely needs to be replaced and the paint job is nonexistent, but the bones of the house are strong. Dean walks up the steps, testing each one for rotten wood. The roof is intact, for the most part, and other than the debris from nature, the floor is in decently good shape. All in all, it’s a good house.

Dean steps outside and examines the house from the outside. A faint inkling of a plan starts to form in his mind. It’s insane, but it beats the Road Trip of Sadness. Dean stretches, and this time doesn’t even notice the popping of his spine. Instead, he’s too busy focusing on the broken windows, the empty shingles of the roof.

Dean gets back into the Impala and pulls carefully out of the clearing. Once he’s back on the road, he finds a sign which informs him that the town of Battleborough, Vermont is only five miles away.

Humming along with the radio, Dean drives.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	2. stumble in the darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas both find friends.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After he and Sam had made their decision, all that remained was to tell Jack and Cas. 

They’d split the task. Sam went to talk to Jack and Dean, poor soul that he was, drew the short straw. He stood outside Cas’ door for a few minutes and really examined the texture of the wood grain. He’d almost memorized it when the irascible voice floated through the door. 

“If you’re going to come in, then come in. Otherwise, stop standing there.” 

Despite his newly human status, Cas still had a few perks. Moving furniture was a breeze with him around, and any gardener would have been happy to have him in their employ. Dean had watched Cas brush his fingers over a withered plant and seen the brown recede from the leaves and the flowers gain new vibrancy. And, while he might not have been able to read minds any more, Cas still possessed a remarkable sort of intuition that let him know when Dean was lurking on the other side of his door like a chicken shit. 

Dean opened the door and stepped inside. Cas kept his room bare: no artwork, no real possessions. There were a few knick-knacks on his desk, but nothing that spoke of permanence, nothing that said that Cas had made the first steps to moving in. One part of Dean was irrevocably sad, while the other was hopeful. If Cas hasn’t moved in, then he might not be averse to leaving. 

Dean had told him the decision and watched for Cas’ reaction. Whatever he’d been looking for, he didn’t find. Cas had listened, face like marble, eyes unblinking, a perfect picture of celestial stoicism, for all that he was graceless now. When Dean finished, Cas just nodded once, a short, decisive gesture. 

When he said that he couldn’t make the same decision and that he hoped Dean could understand, a tiny part of Dean had shattered. 

—-

There’s always a diner, no matter how small the town. It’s what Dean loves about America. That, and the obscene amount of fireworks available on Fourth of July. 

He settles in with his coffee and waits for his bacon and eggs to be delivered. While he waits, he makes small talk with the waitress. She moves with the exhaustion of a double shift and looks grateful for the distraction. 

“So I’m passing through town and I stopped by that old Victorian on the outskirts,” he begins. He revels in the simplicity of the conversation. Talking about rundown houses is so much easier than asking about strange disappearances or weird cold spots. Turns out that the locals are much more willing to talk about houses on the historical registry. 

The waitress--Emily--tells Dean that no one’s lived in that house for as long as she can remember, but she knows that the land is owned by Minnie Gareth. Mrs. Gareth, she goes onto tell him, is the closest thing that Battleborough has to a real eccentric. Apparently, after her husband died, she took to wearing black mourning garb, reminiscent of Queen Victoria, and started spending all of her time in her gardens. 

Dean thinks that the widow Gareth just sounds like a lonely old person, but Emily’s tone suggests that there’s something deeply suspicious about this activity. When Dean asks where he might find the Widow Gareth, she squints at him, as if just now arriving at the idea that perhaps she’s been serving coffee to a serial killer. Dean gives her his best ‘Promise that I’m not here to kill you’ smile, the one that he used all the time on reluctant witnesses. 

Emily purses her lips in disapproval, but she still gives him the address. 

\--

Mrs. Gareth’s house leaves Dean feeling a little disappointed. For all of Emily’s dire predictions, the widow lives in a small house with tiny shrubs in front. It looks like a million other houses in a thousand other places. Dean would know. He’s been to most of them. 

He knocks on the door and waits. From inside he hears the slow, deliberate sounds of someone shuffling towards the door and, after what feels like an eternal wait, the door creaks open. Standing in the doorway is a Norman Rockwell caricature of the quintessential grandmother. She’s even dressed in a gingham dress. 

“Can I help you?” The smell of freshly baked cookies wafts out of the house and, despite his breakfast, Dean almost starts salivating. He looks around for any hint of something hinky. It would just beat all if, after everything, he were to bite it at the hands of a demon wearing a grandma. 

Nothing immediate catches his attention and he even mumbles a quick _christo_ under his breath just to be sure. He gets an odd look for his troubles, but nothing else. 

“Hi, Mrs. Gareth?” Dean shoots off the most charming smile he has, the don’t worry ma’am, everything’s going to be just fine smile, the smile that’s ended up with more panties on the ground than he really cares to count. And what do you know, it works on kindly old widows the same as it does randy co-eds. In short order, he’s invited into the house, told to take a seat, and even given a cookie, warm from the oven. 

They make small talk, from everything about the weather to the impending spring festival. Dean smiles and interjects when necessary and feels, for once, like a real person. He even drinks tea and wonders all while how he got so domesticated. Eventually, their conversation takes a lull and that’s when Dean brings up the house. 

Mrs. Gareth, Minnie, as she’d insisted several times, blinks in obvious surprise. Something shifts behind her eyes before she laughs, a little too brightly, but Dean passes that off as just one of the weird quirks of old people. “That thing? It’s been falling down for years, but I can’t save it. Who has the time?” She laughs again and raises her crabbed, arthritic hands, the knuckles big as marbles. “It’s not like I’m going to restore it.” 

Dean licks at his lips, his throat dry. “I just wondered…” He feels stupid asking, and he can think of at least ten other things he’d rather be doing. Most of them involve facing down various monsters with differing degrees of weaponry on his body. But he pushes on, because he said goodbye to that life, and now he has to live with the consequences of it. Like maybe getting something that he wants, for once. “I have a little experience in that area and I was wondering if maybe I could fix it up? We could work something out?”

He’s not necessarily lying. He did work construction in the year he was with Lisa. It was nothing to the extent that the house will require, but sue him, he hasn’t given up the habit of lying. 

Mrs. Gareth’s eyes shift away from him and for the first time, Dean feels a little curl of foreboding in the pit of his stomach. “It’s not a bad idea,” she begins, and Dean knows the beginnings of a rejection when he hears it, but he sticks around because it’s polite. The woman gave him a cookie, the least he can do is give her the courtesy of letting her finish her refusal. 

“There’s something wrong with the house.” 

Dean blinks. This wasn’t what he expected. 

He takes a longer look at Minnie’s face. He recognizes the pinched concern, the anxiety held in the corners of her eyes and mouth. He saw them for almost forty years when he talked to witnesses and families whose lives had been irrevocably changed by the supernatural. Instincts rise, easy as breathing. 

“What sort of thing?” From the look on her face, he can tell that she’s the type who needs to be eased into this conversation. “Bad plumbing?”

Minnie drops her hands in her lap and strokes over a tarnished wedding ring. “My husband and I...we tried to rent it out to families. It’s a beautiful house. Even in its current state, it’s beautiful. But no matter how enthusiastic the families were about the house…” Her voice trails off as she looks out the window. 

“They never stayed,” Dean finishes. 

“They told stories,” Minnie murmurs, more to herself than Dean. “Absurd fantasies, things that you couldn’t believe in thousands of years could be true. Gerald, that’s my husband, would always say that they just wanted an excuse to get out of their lease. And here, in the light of day, it would seem so simple. But whenever we went to go clean up after them, to make sure that everything was running correctly…” A muscle in her face twists. The bottom of her tea cup rattles against the saucer until she sets both down on the coffee table with a firm clink. 

“There’s something wrong with that house,” she says quietly. 

Her words and tone are obviously meant to act as nails in a coffin on the conversation, but Dean also has years of experiences prying open caskets and things that are meant to be dead. 

“Mrs. Gareth. Minnie,” he corrects at the vaguely disapproving look on her face. “I know that this is going to sound insane, but I think that I might be able to help you.” 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

For a former immortal being, Castiel has not mastered the art of patience. He sits in his truck and taps his fingers against the steering wheel, willing time to move faster. He has no more leads to follow, no other branches to shake, nothing except for this bar. 

The newspapers had reported a series of confusing suicides which had been plaguing the town of Fort Collins, Colorado. As far as Castiel can tell there’s nothing supernatural in the manner of their deaths: in his line of work a bullet through the brain is a fairly mundane way to go. However, the suicide ratio for this town has doubled in the past weeks, which smacks of the supernatural. 

At first he thought the culprit was a witch, but a search of the victims’ homes and jobs yielded nothing in the form of hex bags or possible motives. He’d talked to police, family members, and come up with nothing. All the family members said that far from being depressed, their loved ones were happy in the weeks before they died. They’d been seeking promotions, planning vacations, viewing new apartments. Activities that spoke of a future. 

A future. 

Castiel’s hands find his phone and turn the small rectangle over in his hands. He received another message from Dean in the afternoon. 

_ **In a place called Battleborough VT. You’re not going to believe it but I caught a case. Just your run of the mill vengeful spirit. Text you later and let you know how it turned out.** _

Castiel’s finger taps out an arrhythmic beat on his phone’s surface. He remembers when Dean came to tell him of his retirement. He’d been somber yes, but there was an undercurrent of peace, that Castiel had never witnessed in him before. Dean had made his choice and was content with it. 

And Castiel…

He swallows hard and slides his phone back into his pocket. He made his choices and now he has to live with the consequences of them. And if those consequences include not allowing himself the comfort of Dean’s company...Well. 

Every choice he made, he made with his eyes open and with full knowledge of what might happen. There’s no one to blame but himself. 

He gets out of the truck and rolls his shoulders. He’s got work to do. 

\--

After an hour in the bar, Castiel runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. There’s nothing here. Just another bar, in another city, filled with the same games and the same decor. He sits in the corner, nursing his second beer and waiting for something, anything, to strike him as out of the ordinary. 

He’d shown pictures of the victims to the waitresses, and while they could all agree that the victims had been patrons of the bar, they couldn’t give any other useful information. The victims had all talked to different people; no one stood out. With his best lead petered out to nothing, Castiel leans back in his booth and scans the bar one last time. 

Nothing out of the ordinary. Tired waitresses dodge roving hands while delivering watered down drinks, loud groups of men congregate around the pool table and dart boards, and groups of giggling, overly made-up women clump together near the jukebox. The floor is sticky, the walls graffitied, and the bathrooms appropriately filthy. 

Castiel sighs and presses his thumbs into his temples. He relishes the sharp burst of pain. It’s no less than he deserves. A string of bodies in this town and he’s lost as to what could have possibly killed them. Now more innocents will die, because he was too pathetic to do his job. 

He finishes off his beer and looks around the bar one last time, hoping desperately for something, anything. Nothing, nothing, nothing--The hair on the back of his neck rises as he sees an unfamiliar figure sitting in the shadows at the end of the bar. 

There’s nothing unusual about his appearance. A broad forehead, sharp nose, short sandy hair, and a strong chin all serve to complete a man who, while conventionally handsome, raises no major alarms. His clothes fit in with the rest of the bar: a sturdy jacket and a plaid button down layered over a black shirt. Castiel looks closer, searching for that little hint of something in him that alerts him to danger and finds nothing. The man is...just a man. 

He reminds Castiel of Dean. 

Perhaps it’s the cocky smile he flashes at the bartender. Perhaps it’s in the loose, yet still wary, set of his posture. Maybe it’s the spark that hooks in Castiel’s belly when their eyes meet. Castiel’s fingers slip in the condensation of the bottle as the man winks at him. When the man stalks over to his booth, Castiel’s swallow stays stuck in the upper part of his throat. 

“Hey,” the stranger says. The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?”

The remnants of beer turn sour in Castiel’s mouth. He recognizes the words, formed into what Dean calls a ‘pick-up line’. He’s heard Dean use these lines before, mostly on women that he finds in bars like these. He doesn’t like hearing those words come out of Dean’s mouth, but he has to admit that there’s a certain charm to the way that he says them: his lips curl into a smile that invites the listener to indulge him, his eyes sparkle with mischief, and he inclines his body towards his target to show that all of his interest is focused on their answer. 

Castiel has watched Dean with many women, enough that he can recognize the seduction ritual. The fact that it’s been turned on him, by a stranger no less, is reason enough to have him push away from the table. “I have to go,” Castiel mutters, angling his body so that he can slide past the interloper.

“Hey, no.” The man reaches out and touches the bare skin of Castiel’s wrist. It’s softer than Castiel would have expected, gentle enough that it gives him pause. He glances up to meet the man’s eyes. The color of them is obscured in the dark light of the bar, but they look kind. He looks genuinely concerned at Castiel’s distress. 

“Look, I’m sorry, it was a lame line. If you stay and let me buy you a beer, I promise that I won’t use any more on you.” 

Castiel pauses. Part of him wants nothing more than to leave the bar and retreat to the solitude of his hotel room. The room might smell of wet dog and the bed might be uncomfortable, but it has the benefit of quiet. 

His phone sits heavy in his back pocket, rife with unanswered messages. The weight of regret sits heavier on him, and isolation is a difficult burden to bear. Castiel looks at the man’s hopeful smile, the incline of the bottle towards him, the invitation in his posture. It touches something that he thought he’d covered up, the vulnerable part of him that remembers late nights in the bunker, Dean wordlessly offering him a beer in the low lighting of the kitchen. 

“Another line and I’m out,” Castiel warns, sliding back into the booth. The man sits opposite him and waves at the bartender, showing her two fingers. 

“I’ll manage to restrain myself,” he promises with an easy smile. It sits well on his face, like it belongs there. After he lost his...after he gave up his...after, Castiel had stood in front of the mirror in his room at the bunker and tried smiling. It never felt entirely right: his cheeks ached after a few minutes and his eyes all but disappeared when he tried to widen his grin. Not showing teeth felt insincere, baring his teeth felt like too much of a threat. At the time, Castiel had few reasons to smile, so it hadn’t mattered much anyway. 

“I’m Jake Hannity.” The man stretches his hand across the table as he waits for Castiel to reciprocate. 

“Cas,” he says, after too long of a pause. “Cas Novak.” His gut squirms in guilt, the same as it does every time he uses poor Jimmy’s name. 

“Well, Cas.” Jake’s voice lingers on the name. It’s uncomfortable, yet at the same time, oddly pleasing. “Forgive my curiosity, but I still have to ask--what brings you here? It’s just,” he laughs, self-deprecating, “this doesn’t really seem like your kind of place, you know?”

Castiel looks evenly at him. “And what seems like my kind of place?” Something is skewed about this whole situation, but Castiel can’t tell if it’s his instincts warning him, or if it’s only his inexperience with human rituals.

Jake ducks his head to hide the grin spreading across his face. Despite Castiel’s misgivings, he finds the gesture endearing. “Some place that has a wine menu or something,” he says, barely audible over the jukebox in the corner. “Some place a hell of a lot nicer than here.” 

“I’m here for work.” Castiel takes a sip from his drink, wincing as the alcohol burns its way down his throat. 

Jake raises an interested brow. “Work huh? What kind of job brings you here?”

Castiel fumbles in his back pocket for his fake I.D. It might be a mistake, but he’s learned that most humans will quail under the appearance of authority. Jake appears to be no different, as his eyes widen at the sight of the F.B.I. logo. “The classified kind,” Castiel explains as he replaces the identification. Perhaps this will stall any further questions. 

“All right, agent,” Jake says, his voice trilling playfully over the title. “Keep your secrets, if you must. I don’t want to get in trouble with the law.” 

It’s a joke. Castiel knows that much, but he can’t muster any corresponding humor to match it. The night has been a failure, and thanks to his incompetence, more people will die. For one, wild moment, he considers calling Dean and asking for help. Dean would come, he knows it, his vows of retirement forgotten. It’s why Castiel can’t ask. 

“I should go,” Castiel says. His fingers turn the empty glass in idle circles. 

“Are you sure?” Jake asks. A strange smile lingers on his lips for just a moment before it’s replaced by guileless curiosity. “I thought that maybe you were looking for leads for the suicides.” 

Castel freezes. A trickle of cold winds down his spine. He sits back in the booth, his posture straight. His fingers twitch, aching for the comfort of a knife. He blinks hard and tries to clear the cloud of alcohol from his brain. Why, why did he indulge himself in that last drink? 

“What do you know about that?” 

Jake smiles again, carelessly. He takes a drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why do you think I’m here?” When Castiel stares, Jake’s smile fades. He glances around the bar before he leans in close to Castiel. “Come on, don’t try and play me. That badge is about as fake as they come, and the suicides are the only thing that makes this town remotely interesting. You’re a hunter.” He sits back in the booth, posture relaxed, his eyes dancing in satisfaction. “Me too.” 

Castiel’s jaw tightens. Every instinct screams for him to deny everything, but he sees little point in subterfuge. “And?” He lifts his chin. “This bar was the last lead that I had, and it’s come to nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say nothing.” Jake looks around the bar once more. “There’s something here, I know it. I just can’t put my finger on what it is.” Jake taps his fingers on the table. “I just don’t know what kind of creature can cause someone to kill themselves.” 

Castiel eyes the man warily. He might be willing to share minimal information, but he’ll never be given to blind trust. He doesn’t recognize this man, but that doesn’t mean much. There were plenty of hunters that he never met. Still, if he’s learned one thing, it’s to confirm everything. He’s made enough mistakes. 

Castiel stands abruptly. “Bathroom,” he says in response to Jake’s question. “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll order you a drink,” Jake calls after him. Castiel waves a hand in acknowledgement, only half paying attention. As soon as he’s out of the other man’s sight, Castiel reaches for his phone. 

_Call Dean, call Dean, call Dean_, his heart cries. Castiel wants, _god_, how he wants, but he cannot. He cannot come to Dean asking for help. He finds Sam’s number and thumbs quickly at it. 

It’s difficult to hear the faint sound of ringing, but Sam’s voice comes across the line, clear and surprised. “Cas? The hell man, we haven’t heard from you in weeks! How are you?” In the background, Castiel hears Jack’s voice asking indistinct questions. 

“Jake Hannity,” he says. At Sam’s confused hum, Castiel realizes that this might not have been the proper greeting. “Yes hello, I’m fine, everything is fine. Do you recognize the name Jake Hannity?” 

“Guess this isn’t a social call then,” Sam grumbles, but there’s a distracted note to the words which means he’s thinking about the question. “Yeah, the name rings a bell. Why?”

“Working a case, ran into him. He said he was a hunter; I just wanted to make sure.” 

“What kind of case?” Once upon a time, there would have been interest sharpening Sam’s voice, but now there’s only concern. “Where are you?” 

“It’s not important,” Castiel answers glancing behind him. He’s been gone too long; Jake will start to get suspicious. In the phone, Sam’s voice continues to make worried noises, and Castiel rolls his eyes. “I’ll call you when I finish. I promise.” 

“And while you’re at it, call Dean, he’s going crazy without hearing from you--” 

“Thank you for the help Sam,” Castiel says, before he hangs up. He doesn’t need the reminder of Dean, doesn’t need to think about the furrow of flesh between Dean’s brows whenever he’s worried or frustrated. He doesn’t need it, but it comes all the same. 

Pain is different, as a human. He’d thought that he was prepared for it this time around, but perhaps one can never truly be prepared. Castiel closes his eyes and lets it wash over him, for just a moment, before he goes to the sink. He splashes water on his face and takes a moment to look at his reflection in the cracked mirror. 

He looks exhausted. Humans have a limited amount of stamina, it turns out, and Castiel suspects that he’s swiftly reaching the end of his. One more hunt, he promises himself. If he can finish this hunt, then he’ll allow himself a moment’s rest. One more hunt, and with that thought bolstering him, he goes back out into the bar. 

Jake sits where he left him. Castiel slides back into the booth. A new beer waits for him, still icy cold. The slight fuzziness in his head warns against imbibing more, but his knowledge of human social mores tells him that it would be rude to ignore the gesture. 

“I was beginning to worry about you. Everything all right?” Jake’s concern seems legitimate, and with Sam’s confirmation as to his identity, Castiel feels like he can finally allow himself to relax. 

“It’s fine,” Castiel shrugs. “There was a line.” 

From the skepticism on Jake’s face, he can tell that his lie is perhaps not as well formed as he thinks. Jake doesn’t bother to contradict him though, so Castiel offers a vague smile. “Perhaps after this, we can go to a quieter place and compare notes.” It’s not until Jake’s eyebrow raises in question that he recognizes how suggestive his words were. “I didn’t mean…” 

Jake laughs. Despite himself, and the lingering picture of Dean in the back of his mind, Castiel can admit that it’s a nice sound. “Oh Cas, you’re a trip and a half.” He drinks, his eyes crinkling. 

Castiel raises his beer bottle in a salute and drinks deep. The alcohol tastes the same--bitter, wheaty. It leaves an aftertaste in his mouth, one that he tries to chase away by running the tip of his tongue over his teeth. 

His head feels fuzzy. When he looks down at his hand, he’s surprised to find that his vision has doubled. A strange sort of numbness steals over his extremities and travels up his arms, to his chest, to his tongue. “What…?” he slurs, the first tendrils of panic creeping over him. 

Jake’s face swims in his vision. One second he’s the handsome stranger who has been sharing drinks with Castiel. Another second and his features morph into Dean’s concerned face. And in the next--

“No,” Castiel moans, understanding clicking a second too late. Already he can feel his brain shutting down, his will twisting away from him. “Oh no.” 

Jake’s face flickers in front of him before it changes, his tan skin turning corpse grey, his light eyes turning black and sunken, and his expressive mouth shifting to a gaping maw. “Oh yes,” the siren purrs, reaching out for him. “You really shouldn’t accept drinks from strangers Castiel.” The siren’s fingers stroke down his cheek, and even though the shredded remnants of his will rebel, Castiel can’t help but lean into his touch. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	3. siren song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siren song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to suicide/self-harm and general dub-conishness, due to the siren. If that's not your thing, I would skip this chapter.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It’s not really surprising that the Battleborough Public Library doesn’t have any information for him. Dean’s luck has always been shitty; he didn’t expect retirement to change much. He searches through public records, looking at births, deaths, and maps. Nothing stands out to him. As far as he can tell, this is a perfectly normal house and Minnie is just an overly excitable widow looking for some intrigue. 

Well, there’s nothing for it. As dark starts to leech across the sky, Dean drives back to the house. He almost misses the turn and he complains the entire length of the long, pitted, drive. If he’s going to make this a semi-permanent affair then the first thing that he’s going to fix is this stupid path. He respects his baby too much to make her trundle through this hellhole of a road. 

He parks and gets out but keeps the headlights trained on the house. It’s dark out in the wilderness, and little light escapes from the road to filter in through the trees. The trunk of the Impala opens and Dean’s fingers find the hidden catch by memory. He already knows where to find his shotgun and his salt rounds. He packs his pockets full and makes sure that he has salt, lighter fluid, and his Zippo. 

He spends a futile moment wishing that Sam was at his side. It’s just a routine salt and burn but it’s always better to have a partner on a hunt. Someone whose movements you can predict before your own, someone who would face the hordes of hell together with you, someone who moves with you like you share the same brain. Sam was a partner like that. Cas was a partner like that. 

Dean bites his lip. His hand finds its way to his phone, just in case. There’s nothing. He knows that there’s nothing. Cas hasn’t spoken to him in three months, but it doesn’t stop Dean from hoping, wishing, or wanting. 

Nothing. 

Dean stares at his lockscreen for a moment more before he puts his phone away. He knows that Cas is his own person and doesn’t have to answer to him, but would it kill him to check in? He faces the house. His eyes take in the battered door, dangling from the hinges like an unneeded limb. What if, after eleven years, Cas decided that Dean was too much weight to carry? 

“The hell is going on with you?” Dean asks, throwing his words into the air. If Castiel was still an angel, then maybe he would have even heard them. But he’s human now, flawed and weak like the rest of them, and there’s nothing for Dean in return. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Castiel isn’t sure how he makes it out of the bar. A soft, soothing voice winds through his brain and Castiel obeys, without knowing how or why. Snatches of awareness come to him and Castiel tries to seize them, but each time a thick fog descends on his mind. In the back of his mind, he hears a voice and while a part of him knows that it’s not the voice he wants to hear, he still falls into its spell. 

He blinks back into consciousness into a hotel room that’s not his. He sits in a chair in the middle of the room. No ties bind him to the chair, but when he tries to get up, he finds that his limbs are uncooperative. 

“Interesting.” With a supreme effort of will, Castiel jerks his head to the side, to meet Jake’s gaze. Noticing the attention, Jake smiles. Castiel would shudder, if he had control of his body. How could he have ever thought that smile charming? “It’s just that by now most people are slobbering husks, drooling over themselves to do whatever I want. You’re still trying to fight me.” Jake drops to his knees in front of Castiel. His hands run up from Castiel’s knees to his thighs. “It’s just…” he leans in close, nose brushing the hair curling over Castiel’s ears and inhales deeply, “intoxicating.” 

The glamor flickers, revealing the monster under the facade. Castiel chokes on his disgust, trying to form denial. His skin crawls at the feel of hands touching him, in places where he’s never wanted to be touched. Thumbs brush against the inseam of his pants, and an image, unbidden, of Dean springs to Castiel’s mind. He kicks out and Jake falls backward, laughing. 

“You are a spitfire, aren’t you? Castiel.” He speaks the name mockingly and Castiel remembers that there are no secrets between a siren and its victim. 

His tongue doesn’t want to form words, but Castiel summons his strength. He commanded garrisons, he was the flaming sword, he descended into hell with the fury of heaven’s armies behind him--He gasps as his mind clears. His fingers twitch on the armchair. 

The siren notices. “Look at you,” he breathes. The look in his eyes is predatory and pleased. 

“Jake Hannity,” Castiel rasps. He has to fight for every word, but it’s important to him that he get an answer. Someone has to speak for the dead. “What did you do to him?”

The siren smiles and once more, their face swims before Castiel’s eyes. Jake’s broad features shift into a woman’s: high cheekbones, sharp chin, large liquid brown eyes, with light blonde hair drifting around her shoulders. “Ah, Jake,” they sigh. The woman brings her fingers to her lips and kisses them. “Real-Jake was actually a hunter. Better than you: he caught on about a week ago that there was something hinky happening in the town. He went to the same bar as you did, asked the same questions…” The woman smiles at him before her features shift back into what Castiel knows as Jake’s face. “Real-Jake had a thing for blondes.” 

Castiel’s lip lifts in a parody of a snarl. “So you killed him.” 

The siren shrugs. “He would have killed me. I just got there first.” Jake’s features twist. “I was defending myself. That’s fair, right? Even your hunter friends would say so.” His fingers stroke over Castiel’s cheek. “By the way, I did you a favor. Real-Jake definitely wasn’t this much of a looker.” A sharp, shark smile splits his face in half. “Of course, I shift according to your desires. So I guess you did yourself a favor.”

Castiel’s stomach lurches. If he had full control over himself, then he might be sick. It makes terrible sense to him now. The familiarity of Jake’s features, the similarity of his behavior...He knows what the siren was trying to make itself into, and the only tragic piece of the whole farce is how easily Castiel fell into the trap. 

“Yeah,” Jake says, a terrible note of sympathy in his voice. Castiel’s body goes limp in his chair and his vision turns dark. When he can, he blinks. Colors return and gradually coalesce into a single picture and then, not even the siren’s control can stop the dry heaving of his stomach. 

“Stop,” Dean says, his forehead wrinkled in concern. Even though he knows it’s not real, even though he knows that it’s a trap, Castiel still yearns to press his thumbs to the deep lines and smooth them out. “Cas, relax. It’s going to be alright.”

“No.” It costs him almost everything to choke out the syllable. 

“Yes,” Dean says, and it’s not him, but it _is_. It’s Dean’s voice and face, and every single part of Castiel wants, with a shameful desire that he tried to keep hidden, even from himself. Castiel tries to shake his head, the last bit of denial allowed him, but Dean’s hands cup his cheeks and hold him immobile. “Cas, please,” and if Castiel had control over his own body, then he would gasp at the pain in Dean’s voice, “please, how long has it been? Eleven years? Twelve? Please, let us have this.” 

“Why?” 

Dean smiles with the brightness of a sunrise. “Because we deserve it.” His hands rest lightly on Castiel’s thighs, thumbs stroking over the inseam of his jeans. “Because after everything we’ve been through, we’ve earned it.” 

“Why the suicides?” Castiel pants. His feeble reserves of strength have all but vanished and he knows that it’s not long before he succumbs. “Sirens force the victims to attack their loved ones, not--”

A vaguely annoyed expression crosses Dean’s face. “Shop talk? Don’t you think there’s something better we could do?” His thumb ghosts over Castiel’s lower lip. Castiel flinches away, even though his fingers flex on the arms of the chair. 

“Can’t stop that brain, can you?” Dean leans forward and presses a soft kiss along Castiel’s hairline. His tongue flicks out to taste the sweat beading on his forehead. “Fine.” He sits back on his heels, though his hands stay on Castiel’s thighs, two warm points of pressure. “It’s simple really. Human beings are vicious. They’d kill their own grandmother if they thought they could get something out of it.” 

Dean’s hands flex on Castiel’s thighs. The look on his face is sinful. Castiel’s blood heats and it makes him sick. “To make a human kill another human? It’s such a feeble thrill. There’s no challenge in it. But to have a human kill themselves? To take away that which they hold most dear? Oh Cas, there’s nothing like it. To know that you inspired that kind of devotion? That kind of love?” 

Dean searches his eyes. Castiel looks back, helpless to turn his gaze elsewhere. It’s not Dean, he knows that, but not even a siren could fake that kind of warmth. “You love me, right Cas?” 

Castiel’s heart shreds. A thin gasp shudders out from between his lips. It’s not Dean, _it’s not Dean_\-- “Cas,” the siren whispers, hands on Castiel’s thighs. He noses into the curve of Castiel’s neck, up to the bolt of his jaw. Castiel whimpers. He strains against his bindings, but he can’t, he _can’t_\-- “Don’t you love me Cas?”

Lips cover his, hot and insistent, _not Dean, not Dean, not Dean_\--Castiel can’t control himself, can’t even determine which way is up or down--He knows, with a bone-deep certainty, that he shouldn’t be doing this, but he can’t remember why, not when it’s Dean and this is everything that he’s wanted for so long--

“Yes Cas,” Dean breathes, his hands cupping Castiel’s cheeks. “Tell me Cas,” he demands, slotting his lips over Castiel’s once more. 

“Dean,” Castiel gasps. He wants to pull Dean closer to him, but for some reason his arms won’t move. That’s fine, it’s fine, because Dean’s lips are soft as they move against his, his tongue delicately tracing the seam of Castiel’s lips. “Love you, oh god, I’ve loved you for so long, _please_, Dean--”

“Tell me again,” Dean demands, between sharp nips to his lips. 

Castiel sees no reason to disobey. “I love everything about you,” he pants, chasing the touch of Dean’s lips. “Loved you since I pulled you out of hell--”

“Would you do anything for me?” 

Castiel looks at Dean’s eyes through a lust-clouded filter. “Whatever you want,” he answers, wondering why Dean even has to ask. 

Castiel’s hand is lifted off of the arm of the chair. He reaches out for Dean, but before he can make contact, something cold is pushed into his palm. He looks down at his angel blade and then back up at Dean. 

“Don’t you wish that it could be over?”

Castiel blinks at Dean, not comprehending. Dean smiles, wrapping his fingers around Castiel’s, strengthening his grip on the hilt. “All that pain, all those mistakes...don’t you just wish that you could rest?”

“Dean,” Castiel croaks. It’s a thought which returns to him frequently, but he’d never imagined, never dreamed...Not Dean. Dean would never…

“If you loved me,” Dean whispers, running his knuckles over Castiel’s cheek and down his throat, “you’d do it.” 

And Castiel sobs, dry and horrible, because he does, _he does_, he loves Dean, with every flawed molecule of his feeble mortal body, he _loves_ him, and it’s such a simple thing, isn’t it? To flip the blade in his hand, place it over the sluggish beat of his heart and push? It would be over so quickly. And then...then…

“I know that you can do it Cas,” Dean croons, his eyes glittering. He runs his hands over Castiel’s face, his arms, his thighs. Every piece of him is flayed open and bare for Dean’s perusal and at the end of it, what Dean has decided to do with him is… “Do it for me.” Dean gently turns Castiel’s wrist. The point of the blade brushes the vulnerable flesh of his stomach. 

A memory struggles to the surface of his mind--April, her name was April and Castiel had thought that he’d perhaps found some kindness in what was proving to be a cruel and brutal world, but no--Her hands, so gentle just hours before, worked over him and they hurt, it _hurt_, and his blade was in her hands, and then the door burst open and Castiel had just a moment to see Dean’s face, see the expression--the hope, the joy, the fear, the anger--before his blade was buried into his abdomen and--

Castiel whines as the world swirls before his eyes. It seems to split, leaving him with two opposite views. In one, Dean loves him, Dean kisses him like Castiel is all he ever wanted, Dean holds him like he’s precious and in return he only asks one simple thing. In the other, Castiel is alone, Dean is little more than a few words on a phone screen, but that world is so much more visceral and painful that it can’t be anything but real. 

More memories rise, seeping out at the edges of his mind-- _“I need you,” choked through blood as a shaking hand reaches out towards him in supplication-- “Don’t make me lose you too.” -- “Don’t get dead.”--An anguished cry as Castiel’s grace flares in helpless agony, Lucifer’s blade buried in his back and the last thing he sees is the look on Dean’s face and he has just enough time to mourn for their missed time before he’s gone--_

Dean might be angry at him, Dean might even hate him, but Dean would never, never, ask Castiel to remove himself from the world. 

Castiel looks at Dean once more, but this time he sees the siren behind the handsome features. “No Cas, it’s just a trick, trust me,” Dean urges, his thumb sweeping over Castiel’s lower lip. The siren’s spell wraps around him once more, but now, having spied the edges of it, it’s merely heart-wrenching opposed to overpowering. “I love you. And I know you love me. So please, just do this for us.” 

Castiel sucks in a shaky breath. He positions the blade carefully over his torso. “I love you,” he whispers, because this might be the only time he gets to say those words to Dean. 

He pushes the blade into his flesh. 

It hurts, but most things about humanity hurt. Castiel forces his hand to remain steady, breathes through the pain, and ignores the warm gush of blood coursing down his side. “Yes,” Dean breathes, licking his lips. “Yes Cas, that’s it.” Castiel pushes the blade in, centimeters further, enough to make a low grunt escape through his gritted teeth, and Dean closes his eyes in satisfaction. 

Which is when Castiel plunges the blade into Dean’s neck.

Hunter’s lore will say that it has to be a bronze blade, but there’s not much that an angel blade won’t kill. The important thing is the blood, which Castiel has, though in swiftly dwindling quantities. It’s enough. 

Dean gasps, his green eyes flying wide and horrified as Castiel yanks the blade out of his flesh. One hand claps over the wound, though it’s a pointless gesture--Castiel felt the spell leave him the moment his blade encountered flesh. Now there’s just the panic, the pathetic scrabble of a creature trying to cling to life. 

“Cas, Cas, please--” 

He hadn’t anticipated that the siren would still wear Dean’s face to bargain for its life. Castiel tries not to look, but he’s no longer an angel, no longer made of stone. He stands from the chair, on legs too shaky to support him as Dean’s body writhes on the ground. Blood still flows from the wound, and this is too close to his nightmares, Dean dying while he’s helpless to stop it--

“I lied you know.” The siren wheezes a laugh, despite its wound. “He’ll never love you. He’ll _never_\--”

Mercifully, the siren gasps out a death rattle and stills. It’s still wearing Dean’s face. 

Castiel starts to shiver. From far away, he’s aware that he’s still bleeding, that his blood has soaked through his shirt and into his jeans. He stumbles forward, falls and manages to catch himself on the wall. His hand leaves a smear of blood behind as he lurches from the hotel room. 

He makes his painful way to his truck and collapses in the driver’s seat. Blood soaks into the fabric underneath him, and he’s going to have to get his wound taken care of sooner rather than later. He’d chosen his spot well, with no vital organs to pierce, but missing blood is missing blood, and mortal bodies need so much of it. 

He needs to get his wound seen to. He needs to get out of this motel parking lot before someone notices the blood and comes looking for him. But the thing that he needs most…

With fumbling, numb fingers, Castiel pulls his phone out of his back pocket. He finds the number by memory and brings the phone up to his ear, listening. 

The line picks up after four rings, with a grouchy “What?” snarled into the line. 

Castiel breathes out a sigh of relief as he whispers, “Dean,” into the phone. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	4. said i'd go before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late night phone conversations are always the best conversations.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dean hasn’t missed getting tossed around by ghosts. 

It hadn’t taken long for the spirit to show itself in Minnie’s abandoned house, and after that it was just a test of who was the quicker draw. Throwing himself out as bait isn’t Dean’s favorite way of determining the identity of a spirit, but when research fails it does get results. Thanks to his efforts, he now knows that he’s looking for a woman, mid-thirties, from early 1900’s. The red gash across her throat left no guesses as to how she’d died. 

Progress. 

Of course, progress also came with a few hellacious bruises, and one truly spectacular headache, so when Dean checks into the motel, he’s mostly interested in collapsing into bed. He manages to wrestle his way out of his jeans, but that’s about it. 

So when his phone rings a mere two hours after his falling asleep, he’s a little perturbed. 

“What?” he snaps as his thumb punches in the answer button. He thinks that he can be forgiven for being a little rude. The only people who have this number are people who know better than to bother him at, he checks the time with bleary eyes, 4:38 in the morning. He swears--if Jack is calling to ask him another question like “_Are the giraffes in the zoo really happy or are they just pretending?_” he’s going to crawl through the phone lines and strangle him. 

Instead of Jack’s chipper voice or Sam’s drunk voice, what he gets is Cas rasping his name, and suddenly, he’s wide awake. 

“Cas?” he asks, bolting upright. Adrenaline spikes through his body and everything seems too bright and too loud as his body tries to adjust. “What the hell man, it’s been months, I told you that you can’t just go dark on us like that--”

“Dean,” Cas interrupts, and Dean shuts his mouth to listen. The last thing that he wants is to make Cas hang up on him and then not talk to him for another three months. “I just wanted to see,” there’s a forced sigh on the other end of the phone, “I wanted to make sure that you were doing all right.” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Dean says, maybe a little bite in his voice, “and you’d know that if you bothered to keep in touch with us like I’ve freaking begged you to do! It’s not just me either--Jack, Sam, hell, even Jody and Claire are worried about you. If you’re hunting, then you’ve got to keep us updated on what’s happening.”

“Yes, about that.” Cas’ voice tapers off in what’s trying to be a laugh but sounds more like a grunt, and all of Dean’s instincts are alert and sparking. 

“Hey,” he says, clenching the cheap fabric of the bedspread in his fist, “are you all right?” 

“I’m fine.” Cas bites the words out too quickly, and Dean knows intimately that particular flavor of evasion. 

“What the--Are you hurt?” Without a second thought, or even turning on a light, Dean is out of bed. He cradles the phone between his shoulder and ear as he searches for his jeans. It takes him a moment to navigate blind, but he manages to shove his feet into the appropriate holes. “Is the whatever dead? Where are you? I’m in Vermont, so depending on where you are, Sam or Jody might be able to get to you sooner--”

“Dean, I’m fine,” Cas says, with slightly more conviction. “It’s dead.” 

“What was it?” Dean asks, still working on the fastening of his jeans. “Demon?” 

Cas breathes a pained sigh across the airwaves. “Siren. It’s dead. I had to use my blood to kill it and I may have slightly stabbed myself.” 

Dean pauses, his fingers shocked into immobility. “You stabbed yourself?” 

“Slightly,” Cas answers, defensive in reaction to the accusation in Dean’s voice. “It’s nothing that a few stitches can’t fix.” He doesn’t say what’s undoubtedly on both of their minds: that if he still had his grace, getting slightly stabbed wouldn’t even be a blip on his celestial radar. Dean still remembers the give of Castiel’s chest as he shoved a knife into it, the way that those eyes had stared back at him like he was a particularly fascinating species of tropical fish. 

“Cas look, I know that you’re all gung-ho about the hunting life, but take a break at least,” Dean says. “Come up and spend a few weeks with me in Vermont.” 

“What’s in Vermont?” Dean can almost imagine the curious wrinkle of Cas’ forehead and the thought makes him smile. 

“Um, so far a good diner, a lot of trees, and a haunted house.” 

“And you said that I needed to take a break.” Castiel’s voice is flat. “I’m not the one who said I was retiring.” 

Dean squirms at the hint of accusation in Cas’ voice. “Yeah well, I didn’t go looking for a case. I found a house that just so happened to have a ghost attached. Thinking about fixing the house up, so I had to get rid of the ghost.” 

Cas sighs, but there’s less pain and more interest in the sound. “Tell me about it,” he demands, and Dean manages to smile as he sits back on the bed. 

This is familiar. As the years went on, and Dean started to finally bid farewell to his macho bullshit, he’d come to admit that he just liked talking to Cas. The angel might have been reticent in person, but for some reason, get him on the phone and he could ramble on for hours. Dean’s not even exaggerating: he timed Cas one time. An hour and thirteen minutes and more information than Dean would ever possibly need about the different phyla of butterflies and bees later, and Cas finally let him get a word in edgewise. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Dean asks, because yeah, slightly stabbed still plays a big part in this conversation. 

“I’m fine. The bleeding’s all but stopped,” and that’s not reassuring, but Castiel’s voice is strong when he says, “Tell me about this house.” 

“Fine. If you think that you’re gonna start passing out or whatever, you tell me.” Dean plumps up a pillow and settles back against the headboard. He closes his eyes and puts himself into a future where he gets a house, a family, and everything that he never let himself admit he wanted. “So you know what a Victorian house looks like, right?” Castiel hums, indicating that it doesn’t matter much whether he does or not; he’s settled in for the long haul. “So it’s that architecture--it’s huge in there, must be at least twenty rooms. Three floors, and Cas, it has an honest to god tower.” 

Cas hums again, and Dean continues to describe the windows, the wrap-around porch, the few rooms that he’d examined. “There’s still some furniture there, don’t know if it’s any good or not, but it’s covered, so it’s worth a shot. And the kitchen--it’s huge Cas, almost the size of the one in the bunker but it’s not like that cafeteria feel either, right? It’s just like a regular kitchen. It’s got counter space for days, probably put at least three pies out to cool and not even notice. And the parlor--it’s got a huge bay window, you could put a bench there, or fuck a piano, if that’s what you’re into, I don’t know.”

“I’ve never played,” Cas murmurs, and the thought delights Dean so much that he has to smile. Cas, sitting down at a piano like some kind of Billy Joel/Elton John wannabe? 

“But it’s got plenty of space for you, Sam, the kid, Jody, Donna, hell, even Rowena can come if she wouldn’t cry about getting dirt under her nails. Looks like it’s got a hell of a yard, you could put a firepit out there, whatever…” Dean grins as he pictures it: Jack roasting marshmallows over the fire, the delight in his face as he smooshes them together with chocolate to make s’mores. Sam, the giant, curled up in a chair underneath the giant oak, his nose in whatever book he managed to get his oversized mitts on. And Cas...His mind puts Cas everywhere--by Dean’s side as he teaches him how to grill steaks and burgers, in a hammock on the wrap-around porch, napping in the evening sun, next to Jack as they fail to resemble regular humans in the slightest....

“You should really come and see it.” Dean breathes the words into the phone before he has a chance to remember why he shouldn’t. 

A tense silence follows his words and only the steady sound of Cas’ breaths on the other end of the line lets Dean know that he hasn’t hung up yet. Dean waits, anxiety beating in his chest, for Cas’ response. 

“I want to,” Cas says finally. That answer is more than Dean hoped for, so he doesn’t push, doesn’t ask him why wanting and doing can’t be the same thing. He doesn’t ask Cas why he’s still on the road hunting, doesn’t ask why Cas feels the need to deny himself anything that could bring him the slightest comfort. 

Instead, he forces a smile into his voice and tells him, “You know there’s always a place for you. Hell, get here soon enough and I’ll give you first choice of rooms.”

The heavy weight over the conversation disappears and Cas asks, “Well, are there any rooms with an adjoining bathroom? I don’t enjoy picking Sam’s hair out of the drain.” 

Dean closes his eyes and lets himself drift into that future, the one where Cas has his own room, stamped with reminders of his personality. The future where the argument over who used all the hot water or put an empty milk carton back into the fridge is the most dangerous part of their day. 

“I’m sure we could work something out,” he says, chest clenching around the words.

A silence follows, and when Cas speaks again, his voice is hesitant. “You know that you didn’t do anything wrong.” Even though the words are phrased as a statement, the upward inflection of his voice turns them into a question. 

Dean swallows and it hurts. “Cas, I…” He trails off, suddenly wildly not liking the direction the conversation took. 

Questions rise and die on his tongue. _Why did you leave?_

_Why couldn’t you stay?_

The questions sound similar, but they’re wildly different in Dean’s mind. Leaving implies that there was something Cas was running towards or away from. Maybe Cas left because he couldn’t stand the smell of Sam’s socks anymore. Maybe Cas left because he just really loves shitty roadside diner foods. 

Maybe Cas left because after eleven years, he just got tired of Dean’s face. 

Cas couldn’t stay because he had a greater mission. He couldn’t stay because his newly human self couldn’t take being around those who had known him when he was one of the most powerful beings in the universe. He couldn’t stay because after eleven years, he needed something else other than the Winchesters. 

Either way you boil it down, the end result is the same. 

After eleven years, Cas decided that enough was enough, and now they’re on opposite ends of the country--Dean still nursing aches from a piddly ghost hunt and Cas bleeding slowly from a self-inflicted stab wound. 

Sometimes their lives are enough to leave Dean’s head reeling. 

“Come to Vermont.” The words tumble out of Dean’s mouth, but he can’t regret them. “Please. Just...just come.” 

The silence which follows is so long that he fears Cas has hung up the phone. Dean waits, with only the sound of his own breathing and inadequacy to accompany him. 

“I can’t…” Cas stammers out, and Dean’s heart sinks. “I want to,” he starts. “I just…”

“Look Cas, you either come or you don’t. You either want to be here or you don’t.” 

Another silence. Dean can almost picture the look on Cas’ face, the way that he has to take apart each and every word and examine it for meaning before he puts it back together again. He can taste Cas’ reticence across the phone lines, knows that if Cas was still fully powered up, this would be about the time that he would be winging off, too uncomfortable with the prospect of emotions to stay and face the consequences of a conversation. 

“I can’t...I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best.” Cas drops words like each syllable costs him, but he speaks them, which is the important thing. 

“All right. Just...get here Cas. And be careful. Please.” 

Dean punches the ‘End Call’ button and tosses the phone on the bedspread next to him. He chews on a ragged nail as he tries not to think about Cas, miles away, alone and bleeding in the front seat of his truck. 

Every part of him wants to drop the house, Mrs. Gareth, the ghost hunt, all of it, and run to Cas’ side. If he called back and demanded to know the exact coordinates for Cas’ location, then Cas would tell him. Not happily, but he would tell him. And then…

Dean would rush to him and bundle him up in the Impala and have him back to Vermont in a matter of days. It would be nothing short of a rescue, which is not what Cas wants. He made that very clear the first hunt he went on, post-Grace. 

Dean had taken the hit which was meant for Cas and gotten a fat lip for his trouble, but that was nothing compared to the silent treatment he received on the way home. When they made it back to the bunker Sam had made himself scarce, while Cas and Dean had rattled the light fixtures with their subsequent fight. 

“It’s not your job to protect me!” Cas shouted. One out-flung hand sent a pile of books scattering to the ground, but Cas ignored them in favor of fixing his stare on Dean. 

Even though Cas no longer had his grace, Dean had no problem believing, in that moment, that Cas could still smite him. But Dean had always been a bit of an idiot, so he argued anyway. “If you’re on a hunt with me, then yeah it is my damn job, especially when you do some stupid shit like go into a hunt half-cocked. What was your plan Cas, huh?” Dean’s finger pushed into Cas’ chest, the chest which had almost gotten torn into shreds earlier that day. He could feel the furious beat of Cas’ heart, beautifully human and terrifying. 

“I was planning on hunting, using the methods which I have observed throughout the years. You’ll notice that you’re not the most cautious of hunters,” Cas said back, a sneer in his voice. 

“Yeah, well I’ve had forty years to get good,” Dean answered. Caught up in the moment, and desperate to make Cas understand his fear, he dropped his last bomb. “You’re not an angel anymore Cas, you can’t just shake this kind of stuff off. You have to be careful.” 

The second the words were out of his mouth, Dean knew he’d made a mistake. Cas’ face shuttered, eyes turning into chips of ice and mouth pressing into a thin line. Cas never moved, not even an inch, but suddenly the gap between them increased to a gaping canyon. Dean had stuttered his way through the beginnings of three apologies, trying to say that he hadn’t meant exactly what he had meant, but Cas had stormed off. A few moments later, the sound of his door slamming echoed through the rest of the bunker. 

Eventually Cas came out, but things were never the same between them, even when they were able to be in the same room without sniping at each other. They stopped joking, and never got around to sharing a beer, or doing any of the things that Dean had looked forward to doing with human Cas. They’d barely exchanged ten sentences that hadn’t had anything to do with hunting before they went on that last, disastrous hunt. And after that hunt...Dean had told Cas that he was retiring, and then…

Dean scratches at his jaw. He can’t change the past. He can’t take his words back, he can’t undo his decision to quit hunting, Cas can’t rethink his decision to not join Dean, and he can’t reach across state lines and stop Cas from hurting. 

But he can do this. He can finish this hunt, he can get rid of this ghost and start to restore the house, and he can start to make it into a home for when Cas finally arrives. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Castiel carefully sits up on the creaky hotel bed, pressing his hand to his side to try and alleviate the pain. It’s been two weeks, but the stitches still pull and tug at his healing skin whenever he moves too swiftly. 

Human bodies heal at an exponentially slower rate than he would have thought. It all seemed so simple when he could reach out and tap Sam or Dean’s forehead and speed up the process. He never gathered an appreciation for how skin had to knit back together, how unsupple scar tissue is, or how difficult it was to stitch together skin and not pass out. 

He’d done it the way that he knew Dean did: swallowed several mouthfuls of the cheapest liquor he could find, shoved his belt between his teeth and started in on his skin with dental floss and a needle he’d sterilized with his lighter just seconds before. 

There are thirteen stitches in his abdomen, two of which are fairly neat and eleven of which are sloppy. It’s more difficult to push a needle into your own skin then he’d originally thought. His belt has permanent indentations from his teeth digging into the supple leather and he knows that he’ll bear an ugly scar after the stitches come out. 

Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind, Castiel examines the papers in front of him. Newspaper articles tell him of the mysterious kidnappings and subsequent deaths of four members of the town of Jasper, South Dakota. Each person was reported missing before their body was discovered. The shortest amount of time between disappearance and discovery was three days, the longest a week. The coroner reported severe blood loss, despite no evidence of wounding on the victims, along with an unidentifiable toxin present in each body. Each victim also bore a strange blue mark on their arms. 

It’s laughably easy, so much so that Castiel resents the help of Sheriff Jody Mills. 

“Your assistance is not necessary,” he’d said, after taking a cursory glance at the sheafs of paper. “It’s only a djinn. Quickly dealt with.” 

“Yeah, but give a girl a chance to stretch her legs,” she’d replied with an easy-going nonchalance that hid the steel underneath. “I called you, after all. Seems rude to leave you high and dry.” 

Castiel doesn’t know how Mills came by his phone number, but she had called him, and he’d responded. Now he’s here, in Jasper, waiting for Mills to come back with possible lair locations, while he wills his body to heal faster.

“Plus,” Mills had confided as they walked out of the medical examiner’s office, “don’t take this the wrong way, but you look kind of like a stiff breeze would blow you over.” Concern crossed her face as she stopped, also forcing him to stop. “Are you sleeping okay?”

Castiel frowned, unused to the scrutiny. “I sleep fine,” he replied shortly, wishing to be gone--from the conversation, from the state, possibly from the plane of existence. 

Jody refused to move. “Yeah?” There was a touch of skepticism in her voice. “I don’t...Sam and Dean told me what happened, at least the short version of it.” Castiel felt his face heat in an involuntary reaction to the humiliation of having his story bandied about like cheap entertainment. “They just want to help,” she added, correctly reading his mood. “I don’t know what I can do, but I can’t imagine that any of this is easy. I’ve been human for a long time and I still don’t think that I’m great at it.” 

There was kindness in Jody’s eyes and in the lines around her mouth. Castiel can’t accept that kindness, not with his abdomen still aching, not with Dean’s voice still echoing in his memory--_You either want to be here or you don’t_. 

“The point that I’m trying to get at,” Jody continued, oblivious, “is that if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.” 

Castiel appreciated Sheriff Mills. Sam and Dean spoke highly of her, she’d saved their lives multiple times in the past, and she’d taken Claire in when the girl had nowhere else to go. However, that didn’t mean that she was owed any part of him. 

“Thank you,” he said, his voice stiff. “But I find that doing my job is the easiest way to...to cope.” 

Mills had let it drop, though not happily. They’d continued through the day and into the next, gathering various leads. There were several abandoned warehouses in the town of Jasper, all intriguing options for a djinn. 

Castiel switches his position on the bed, letting out a long exhale as pain flares and then subsides. He rubs at his eyes, trying to will away the exhaustion. 

He’d lied, of course. He hadn’t been sleeping fine, not since the siren. Every time his eyes drooped, all he could remember was the heat of the kiss, Dean’s face in his vision, Dean’s hands on him..._I love you_, in Dean’s voice. 

Dean bleeding. Dean dying. 

No, Castiel hasn’t been sleeping well these days. 

With a wince, Castiel swings himself off the bed and makes his way to the coffee maker on the counter. The coffee here is cheap and leaves grit behind in his teeth, but it’s better than nothing. He needs his mind to be alert, needs his body to heal. He needs angelic focus and strength, not the pathetic approximation that humans manage to muster. 

There had been a time where he’d thought he wouldn’t mind being human. If he could have spent his time with Dean and Sam, if, after eons of service, he had a chance to just relax...If he could have finally had a place to call home, then no, he wouldn’t have minded humanity. 

But his failings had been slapped in his face the first hunt he’d attempted, his newly mortal body failing to perform even at its meager capacity. Dean had been furious and that anger had turned him cruel. Castiel knows that Dean didn’t mean the harshness of his words, but he also knows that while he might have phrased them differently, the emotion behind them would have remained the same. 

Castiel wasn’t an angel anymore. He couldn’t defend himself. He was weak. Useless.

And then, Dean coming to him and saying that he was retiring...Hours before, his life’s blood had been leaking out and Castiel, weak, mortal, Castiel could only watch him...Dean had looked at him with an expression of anticipation and all Castiel could think was that Dean was retiring for him, because he was no longer capable of handling himself. Dean was giving Castiel an excuse to quit. 

Pity, it turns out, leaves a bitter aftertaste. 

Pride was Lucifer’s sin and Castiel knows that it is his too. He can’t manage to stop himself, however. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to prove anymore--That he doesn’t need Dean? That he can handle himself? That he’s not afraid of his newfound mortality? That he knows how to exist without the Winchesters? 

Whatever point he was trying to prove, he thinks he’s failed. But the mantra beats in his head, relentless as the ticking of a clock--_One more hunt. Just one more_. 

Castiel takes his styrofoam cup and returns to the bed. He sifts through reports and articles and lands on a map with potential lairs circled in red. There’s five of them. Castiel looks down at his phone. Jody was supposed to call him when she discovered a viable lead. His phone yields nothing and Castiel taps his chin. 

It would be easy for him to drive and examine the sites. He wouldn’t necessarily even have to engage. All he would be doing would be looking for signs. 

Dean’s voice raises in admonishment--_You never leave your partner without telling them where you’ll be; you have to let us know what you’re planning Cas_\--but Castiel ignores it. He dresses, grunting softly as the motion pulls on his stitches, and makes sure to stow his angel blade in the waistband of his jeans. He opens the door to his room, looks both ways, before making his way to his truck. In his hand are the addresses of the warehouses. Castiel starts the truck and drives to the first location. 

\---

Castiel wipes the faint gathering of sweat off his brow as he gets out of the truck at the third location. More than the ability to instantly discern the location of monsters, he misses the lack of response to environmental stimuli. Sweating is a distinctly human, distinctly unpleasant phenomena that he wants no part of. His shirt clings to the small of his back and his armpits are uncomfortably moist. 

He’s prepared to give it up if this location doesn’t yield any results. He can just start again tomorrow, when he has hopefully at least a few hours of sleep under his belt. He and Jody can dismantle the last two warehouses. At this point, frustrated and impotent, Castiel is ready to burn them to the ground. He’s certain that the town of Jasper would thank him for having these eyesores removed. 

He enters the warehouse as silently as he can but the rusty metal door still creaks on its hinges. Castiel silently repeats some of the curses he learned from Dean as he tries to squeeze through the minuscule space between the door and wall. It’s a tight fit, but he manages, just barely scraping his jacket against the rough metal. 

Once inside, the slender beam of his flashlight provides little illumination. Several times he trips over obstacles, one time going so far as to fall to his knees. He rips the fabric of his jeans and hisses as blood starts to trickle down his shin. Human eyes are useless at the best of times (Castiel is fairly sure that sometime in the near future he’s going to need reading glasses), but they’re even worse in the dark. 

If the djinn wasn’t aware of his presence before, all of his fumbling and stumbling have certainly alerted it. His heart hammers in his chest and Castiel tries to slow its rhythm with steady breaths in and out through his nose. His flashlight sweeps across the warehouse, casting light over forgotten tables, boxes, and shelves. No victims or evidence of supernatural activity immediately come to his attention. 

Castiel turns back towards the exit, finally allowing his exhaustion to seep through his bones when--A faint scuttling, the sound of shuffling. His light swipes over the warehouse in a wide arc. The space is ominously empty, but Castiel can feel it now: the presence of eyes, calm intelligence surveying his every move. 

The blade in his hand gives him weight and security, but it’s not enough to fight off the primal wariness of the dark. It’s a human instinct, bred into their DNA from thousands of years crouching around fires while creatures howled and snapped in the darkness, and Castiel would have thought that he was immune, but no such luck. His pulse beats a warning in his body and Castiel wishes, viciously and suddenly, that he had called Jody to tell her where he was. 

Another sound from behind him--Castiel whirls around to catch...nothing, out of the corner of his eye. The absence of a being scrapes against his brain, taps into a reservoir of fear that he wasn’t aware existed in him. He misses the solid presence of Sam at his back, his even-temper and unflappable calm. He misses Dean, vibrant and bright at his side, effervescent as a volcano, immutable as bedrock. He wants their help, he doesn’t want to be alone, he doesn’t want--

“Well, what do we have here, huh?” 

The voice snaps through the darkness and Castiel whirls around, his blade already plunging towards vulnerable flesh. A strong hand seizes his wrist, there’s a flash of blue light, and then--

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	5. a pocketful of dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life could be a dream.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The ghost hunt goes off with only the minorest of hitches. Ghost-lady turns out to be Frances Calloway, a prostitute who went into the house to service the current resident and just...never walked out again. A swift check of the basement reveals a hidden room, with a desiccated skeleton. It’s difficult to salt and burn when the skeleton’s former occupant is trying to grab your kidneys out through your spine, but Dean does an all right job, with only a few bruises to show for his efforts. One flick of a lighter later, and the ghost goes up in flames. 

“Sorry sweetheart,” Dean mumbles as he stamps out the last flames. “But you’re kind of honing in on my real estate.” The last embers die underneath the tread of his boots. “Rest in peace,” he adds, a second too late. 

The next day he bundles Minnie in the passenger seat of the Impala and drives her out to the house. Her appreciation of the rumble and shake of his baby would have endeared her to him, if she wasn’t already. “They don’t make them like this anymore,” she tells him, patting a gentle hand on the frame of the car. “They’re all just plastic these days.” Dean grins and leads her with a careful hand under her elbow, to the house. 

It looks brighter in the full daylight, removed from the shadow of a haunting. Minnie pauses on the front steps, her trepidation clear. “It’s all right,” Dean says, gentling his voice. 

Minnie’s steps are hesitant but unwavering as she walks up the steps and through the front door of the house she’s feared for so long. She flinches, like she’s sure she’s about to be struck, but when nothing happens, she slowly straightens. 

“Oh,” she says, after a long moment. A look of wonder spreads across her face. It takes years away from her, and for one shining moment, Dean can see what she looked like when she was a young girl. “_Oh_. She’s beautiful.” One gnarled hand rests gently on the arch of a doorway. “Hello gorgeous.” She strokes over the peeling paint, a fond smile resting on her face. 

When she turns back to Dean, her face is radiant. “How did you do it?” 

Dean shrugs and kicks at a stray stone. “Just a little bit of this and that,” he hedges. He’s found that civilians, no matter how thankful they are, tend to balk when he tells them the reality of his job--former job. 

“For so long, I’ve been scared of this house.” Minnie walks forward and passes a reverent hand over the staircase. The wood will need to be replaced and the stairs leveled, but the bones are still there, a dramatic, sweeping curve that catches the imagination. “But now...It was always such a beautiful house.” She turns back to Dean, her eyes bright. “What do you want to do with her?”

\---

Dean and Minnie talk restoration plans long into the evening. She puts another piece of pie in front of him, which he accepts gratefully. The sweet filling spreads over his tongue as Minnie flips through yellowed floor plans. 

“Most of the furniture should still be viable, if a little old and musty. The bones of the house are strong, we always made sure of that. But you saw--peeling paint, holes in the walls, broken glass...She needs work.” Minnie rolls up the plans and fixes Dean with a shrewd look. 

“What were your plans? Long-term I mean?”

Dean shifts. “I hadn’t really…” he begins, then stops because he had. “I was looking for a place to settle down. Maybe bring some family members along with me. Make a place where they could relax. Where they could...where they can be happy.” 

Minnie accepts this answer with a smile. “You want a home for your family,” she summarizes, and yeah, isn’t that what he’s been looking for since he was four? A place to call home and someone to share it with? 

“I don’t have a lot of money, but I can get the materials pretty cheap. I don’t…” Dean taps his foot against the plush carpeting as he tries to figure out the right combination of words. “I don’t know how much you want for the house, or if you pay me or if I pay you...I’ve never done this before.” 

“Here’s how it’s going to work,” Minnie says, with the firmness that comes from a long life. “I’ll give you an allowance each month, to spend on materials and labor that you can’t fulfill yourself. You’ll keep me up to date on what you’re doing and consult me about any major changes that you want to make to the house. When you’re done with the renovations, we can decide what to do with the house then.” She takes a sip of her tea. “Of course, you can have use of the furniture as well as free board in the house. How does that suit?”

Dean is literally speechless for a few moments, before he manages to stutter out, “That’s, that’s very generous, but I don’t…”

“I don’t have any family of my own left,” Minnie says, and there’s something in her tone that suggests she’s not telling the whole truth but Dean’s damned if he’s going to go poking through that can of worms without an express invitation. “And that house is just going to sit there and rot if someone doesn’t step up and take care of it. Think of it like you’re doing me a favor.” 

Dean’s fairly certain that’s not what’s happening, but he’s not going to argue. Instead, he grins and reaches across the table to shake Minnie’s hand. Despite her age and the slight palsy in her hand, her grip is firm and her shake assured. 

“We’re in business,” she tells him.

\---

Dean spends the next week going over the house with a fine-toothed comb, noting down all areas which need improvement. Some of the repairs he’ll need someone with more expertise than he has (the electricity is a fire hazard waiting to happen), while others he’s fairly certain he can figure out given enough time. He starts to work up a budget, occasionally cursing when he discovers the real cost of things (who would have thought that glass would be that expensive?). 

It keeps him busy and keeps him from wondering why Cas hasn’t called or texted him. He keeps his own messages deliberately light and mostly related to the minor repairs he’s making around the house: he patched a hole in the wall, he tore out a rotting and aged vanity in one of the bathrooms. Cas doesn’t answer him. 

The quiet of the house at night is unlike the quiet of the bunker at night. There, the hum of electricity was always present, along with the rush of water in the pipes. Cas didn’t sleep, so if you tried, you could always hear the soft sounds of him moving around the library. 

Here, there’s only the faint sounds of the woods shifting and stirring, the sound of insects chirping outside the windows. The mattress here isn’t as plush as his old memory foam one in the bunker and replacing it tops Dean’s to-do list. He does have to admit that the huge king-sized bedframe leaves him ample room to stretch out and he takes full advantage of the opportunity. He can’t help but imagine what it would be like if he had someone else there to stretch out with.

Dean gave up pretending that he didn’t want Cas a long time ago. He gave up pretending that he wasn’t in love with Cas a shorter while ago. Once he did, he wondered why he bothered in the first place. 

He can admit now, that he was probably always a goner for big blue eyes and a head full of messy, dark hair, not to mention the aura of overwhelming power that always seemed to accompany Castiel wherever he went. Even afterwards, when Castiel was still weak and reeling from the loss of his grace, there was still an inexplicable draw to him, one that brought Dean in as helpless as a moth to a porchlight. 

Dean stretches out along the mattress, his fingers reaching for a body that isn’t there, that might never be there, and he tries not to feel the loss in every part of him. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Castiel comes slowly to awareness. A chill creeps along his bare calf and he twitches irritably. With a deft maneuver, he hooks his ankle back under the blanket and settles underneath it as he curls his arm around the cool side of the pillow. Comfort attained, he sighs in contentment. No doubt someone will be along to get him soon, but for the moment, he’s allowed to enjoy this moment. He reaches out next to him, groping through still-warm sheets to find--

A quick swat on his ass causes Castiel to yelp and bolt upright. Rubbing the remnants of sleep out of his eyes, he glares at the offender. 

Dean grins back at him, his damp skin still flushed pink from his shower. Several drops of water fall from the tips of his hair to curl along his collarbones and wind their way down his chest. Castiel follows their path, unconsciously licking his lips as they travel down Dean’s stomach to disappear underneath the towel wrapped loosely around his hips. 

“Time you got up,” Dean tells him, unrepentant as he scrubs the towel in his hands through his hair. “We’re hitting the road in a few hours.”

Castiel rolls over onto his back, not missing how Dean’s eyes track his movements. “So wake me in a few hours,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. He can’t block out the glare of the lamp, but he can try his hardest.

The mattress dips under Dean’s weight, but Castiel doesn’t open his eyes, not even when Dean’s shadow looming over him blocks the lamp light. “Thought angels didn’t sleep,” Dean murmurs, his lips brushing against Castiel’s forehead. Pressed so close, Castiel can feel the moment Dean smiles against his skin. “You going soft on me?”

Dissonance jangles at the back of Castiel’s mind, ruining his haze of calm. His eyes fly open at the same moment Dean’s hand sweeps over his stomach to settle at his groin. “Hm.” He meets Dean’s playful eyes, dancing in delight, as clever fingers start to work over his very interested flesh. “Guess I don’t have to worry about you going soft.” 

Dean leans over him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Castiel’s mouth opens easily at the first touch of Dean’s tongue and he moans softly into the kiss, his hips shifting restlessly as Dean continues to stroke him. Hard and aching, he thrusts up into Dean’s loose fist. Pre-come turns Dean’s grip slick, and Castiel reaches up to pull Dean closer. 

“Hey you randy bastard,” Dean teases, kissing along his jaw down to his throat, before he returns to Castiel’s lips. “Thought I tired you out last night.” 

Castiel has no answer and can only pant his pleasure towards the bunker’s ceiling as Dean starts to work him faster. He manages to get out a garbled, “Dean, please,” which has Dean groaning into his mouth. 

“Yeah, that’s it babe,” Dean murmurs into his ear, nipping at the tender flesh. “Come for me, I wanna see, you’re so gorgeous, so sexy, just for me, come on Cas, come for me...” 

A wildfire ignites in Castiel’s belly and chest. He whimpers at Dean’s words, even through the sense of wrongness that still fogs his brain. Like a grain of sand caught in an oyster’s shell, something scrapes underneath his skin, but he can forget it for the moment, lose himself and the world in the joy of Dean’s kiss and touch. 

As pleasure pools in his groin, his grace curls happily in his chest, flowing through his body. Castiel’s back arches off the bed at the sensation, his heart pumping wildly with unneeded blood. His hands grasp at Dean, pulling him closer--_His grace, his grace_\--

He comes over Dean’s fist with a harsh cry, muffled by Dean’s lips crashing against his. Dean gentles him through the aftershocks, his hand continuing to stroke until Castiel’s shaking and oversensitive. Castiel returns Dean’s kisses as best he can, his mouth slack and panting in the fading glow. 

“Fuck baby,” Dean breathes, pressing a final kiss to the corner of Castiel’s mouth. “You make it real damn hard to do anything else, you know that right?” 

Castiel can only stare at him, as the grain of sand continues to scratch at the back of his mind. This isn’t...this is his life, but it’s not _right_\--

“Cas?” A wrinkle of worry furrows Dean’s forehead and Castiel hastens to sit upright. “You ok?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel answers. Dean looks unconvinced, so Castiel leans forward and kisses him, tongue sweeping along the line of Dean’s lower lip. “I’m just…” He pulls back to look at Dean, his green eyes glittering with the evidence of their exertions. “I’m just so lucky,” he finishes, a finger on Dean’s chin bringing him into a sweet kiss. 

There’s a lovely blush dusting Dean’s cheeks when they part and Castiel takes pride in the knowledge that he put it there. It’s amazing to him, that after everything that he and Dean have shared, both the years and the experiences, that something as simple as a compliment and a kiss can make Dean flush. 

Cas blinks, his mind skittering off the rails. _The years_? 

Dean ducks his head, suddenly bashful, and Castiel uses his brief lapse of attention to gather his thoughts. He needs to get himself back together. He’s spending time doubting things as fundamental to himself as his grace and his relationship with Dean. They’re headed on a hunt today and he needs to be sharp. 

“All right, now we’re really going to be late,” Dean says, chasing his words with a nip to the tip of his nose. 

Castiel smiles and pushes his misgivings away. This here, with Dean--this is his life, the one that he carved out with his own hands and he wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

\--

Castiel walks through his life like a revelation. It’s his, he knows it, but he feels like he’s slipped into someone else’s world. Sam greets him in the kitchen and Jack grins at him over a bowl of cereal, and Cas smiles wanly back, and all the while, something whispers at the back of his mind, not right, not right, not right. 

It’s a simple case, just two hours away. A nest of vampires has settled in a town and they’re going to go clear them out. It’s a milk run, as Dean would say, and Castiel agrees. He knows this, because he helped find the case and research it, yet when he tries to access the specific memories, he finds nothing. 

Angels don’t forget. Castiel has thousands of years, imprinted on his mind, and he can recollect memories of the Roman Empire with the same vividness as he can remember what shirt Dean wore yesterday. Yet, when he tries to remember what they talked about while they researched the case...Nothing. He knows the whole picture, but the details escape him. 

His absentmindedness does not go unnoticed. Both Sam and Jack ask him if he’s all right and Cas answers in the affirmative, but he knows that he’s not. Dean just glances in the rearview mirror and meets his eyes with varying degrees of fondness and worry. 

All reports indicate that the nest holed up in an abandoned building just shy of downtown, so they head there. Once inside, Castiel allows his grace to flow, seeking a hint of evil. He finds nothing and closes his eyes as he concentrates. He tries to push his grace out past the confines of his vessel, but...nothing. It’s as if he’s blocked off from his grace, almost like...almost like…

_Blackness, surrounding him, choking him. It’s not darkness, it’s nothingness, it’s...Empty. Castiel screams, but the sound is lost, and in his head an eldritch voice, older than Time itself roars and whispers in a scraping voice that shreds through his grace-- “Make a choice Castiel. Him or you--Choose.”_

A guttural shout slams Castiel back into the present. He looks around wildly for Sam, Dean, Jack--He finds no one and he can’t...His grace...Another shout, this one shrill with pain. “Sam! Jack!” Castiel’s voice bounces off the wall, taunting him with its fading echoes. The next name is torn out of his throat. “Dean!”

He hears nothing back except for a cacophony of shouts. Each one tears at him, because he recognizes each individual voice--Sam, Jack, Dean--Castiel sprints through the deserted hallways of the warehouse, terror fueling his steps, and he’s useless, he’s _useless_ because his grace is gone--

He slides to a stop in a pool of blood and angels don’t vomit, but he just might, this is worse than anything he could have imagined, how did this happen, how did this..

Castiel’s knees ring with pain as he falls to them, despair and horror turning the world muted around the edges. Sam’s eyes stare sightlessly ahead, his throat torn open and blood soaking the collar of his shirt. Jack’s chest is in tatters, one hand resting on the shredded remains in a futile attempt to hold his blood in his body. Dean...Dean....he’d kissed him this morning, held onto those shoulders as he fell apart, but now he really is falling apart, every part of him is scattered into the corners of the universe as Dean gurgles his last breath. 

“Cas,” Dean manages to wheeze, blood burbling through his lips as his body convulses. 

“Dean, Dean, no,” Castiel moans, crawling forward. His hands rest on Dean’s chest and neck and are immediately soaked in warm, sticky blood. Terrified, he reaches for his grace, but there’s nothing, there’s _nothing_, he can’t save Dean, he can’t… “No,” Castiel sobs, pushing at Dean’s chest in a vain attempt to replace the steady flow of blood. “No, please, no…”

“‘S ok,” Dean sighs, one hand rising off the filthy floor a few inches before it falls back with a horrible, final, thud. 

At the sight of Dean’s empty eyes, something in Castiel’s chest breaks open. He throws his head back towards the heavens and howls, helplessness and fury in the sound--Everything, he’s lost everything, there’s nothing...He can’t stop the ragged cries falling from his lips, Dean’s cold hand in his, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it, just make it stop, please, how did it end up like this, perfection turned into horror. 

The sound of a faint laugh scrapes at the edges of his awareness and Castiel’s head snaps over. He gets just a flash of a woman with dark hair and a sickly smile before there’s a flash of blue and--

\--

Castiel jerks awake, his heart pounding so hard in his chest he thinks he might be sick. Sam, Jack, Dean, _oh god_, Dean--

“Babe?” A limp hand paws at his shoulder and arm, reassurance and question at the same time. “Cas? What’s wrong?”

Castiel looks over to see Dean’s concerned face, still with pillow creases pressed into his cheek. Dean thumbs at his bare skin, frowning at the tackiness of sweat which he finds. “You ok?” Dean asks, sitting up so that he can wrap his arms around Castiel’s waist in a loose embrace. 

Castiel leans back into Dean’s body, allowing himself to be soothed by the steady thud of Dean’s heartbeat against his skin. _It wasn’t real, none of it was, Dean is fine_…

“Just a nightmare,” Castiel answers, swallowing the lump of fear still residing in his chest. 

“Yeah?” Dean rests his head on his shoulder. He’s obviously still half-asleep, but he’s fighting it for Castiel’s sake. “You want to talk about it?” 

Castiel reaches up to card his fingers through the longer hair at the top of Dean’s head. Here, surrounded by the familiar aspects of their room, he can finally believe that it was nothing more than a dream. “We were...we were hunting a nest of vampires,” he starts. “You, me, Sam, and Jack. I…” He vividly remembers the helplessness he felt in the dream, reaching for something just out of his grasp. “I couldn’t save you.” 

“Cas, babe.” Dean kisses the curve of his neck and shoulder, his eyelashes brushing against Castiel’s skin. “I’m here, Jack’s here, Sam is fine, we’re all fine.” A steady hand pulls his jaw around and Castiel accepts Dean’s kiss, opening his mouth as Dean’s tongue swipes at his lips. “Besides,” Dean grins at him as they part, “you know there’s no such thing as vampires.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	6. a perfect life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is but a dream, cont.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Despite Dean’s assurances, the dream stays with Castiel all morning. Dean notices and tries to shake him out of his funk, but by the time it comes to wake Jack and make him breakfast, Castiel is in a truly foul mood. Jack, in his five year old wisdom, notices his papa’s mood and keeps quiet through the routine of pouring cereal and juice. 

Dean presses a mug of coffee into his hands. There’s something hesitant in his movements, like he knows that Castiel is only steps away from exploding. His wedding band is cold against Castiel’s skin when Dean rubs at the back of his neck and the weight of it only serves to make Castiel feel guiltier. “I can take Jack to school today,” Dean says, softly enough that Jack won’t hear them over the sound of his chewing. “If you’re not...I mean…” Dean looks down at the floor and Castiel’s mood continues to plummet. 

“It’s fine,” he says, sharper than he intends. “It’s on my way. There’s no sense in you going thirty minutes out of your way for no reason.” 

Dean blinks at him. Castiel interprets the astonishment on his face--Jack is their son, dearly wished for, fought for, and won. He’s certainly not no reason. 

“I’m sorry. Dean, I’m sorry.” Hating himself, Castiel reaches out and Dean, perfect, beautiful Dean, easily wraps him in his embrace. “It’s that stupid dream,” he confesses, pressing his nose into Dean’s shoulder so hard that bright pinpricks of pain burst in his sinuses. “Dean, it was so real--I could feel you die, and Jack…” His fingers grip Dean’s thin shirt tightly, anchoring himself to the present. “And I just can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong, I’m missing _something_\--”

“Hey. Professor.” Dean kisses his forehead, temporarily halting the runaway train of Castiel’s thoughts. “I think you’re taking this dream a little too seriously, all right? I’m here.” His thumb rubs determinedly at the downturn of Castiel’s mouth. “I’m here and I’m not leaving you, you grumpy bastard.” 

Castiel smiles, dropping his forehead to Dean’s shoulder. “What would I do without you?” he asks, the question obviously rhetorical. 

“Live with that stick permanently shoved up your ass,” Dean teases, one hand skirting down to pinch at Castiel’s butt through his pajama pants. “Lucky that I’m there to replace it with--”

“Dean!” Castiel hisses, though if he’s honest, at least half of his outrage is only for posterity’s sake. “Our son is right there--”

“Oh trust me Cas,” Dean says, false sincerity glinting in his eyes, “he already knows that Papa has a giant stick up his ass.” He grins at Castiel, the words completely at odds with the rest of his demeanor. This is why Castiel can’t stay angry at him, even when he should, because there’s never any real malice in Dean. Not to mention that he’s devastatingly handsome, and he knows it. 

“I,” Castiel says, with affronted dignity, “am going to take a shower.” 

Experience teaches him to avoid the swat to his ass which Dean attempts to land as he walks out of the room. 

\---

By the time that Castiel drops Jack off at school and makes it into his office, he’s feeling more himself. He’s spacier than usual--he can tell from the concerned looks that Hannah and Meg shoot each other when he ignores three questions from each of them--but he’s not a ticking time bomb, which is a good thing. 

His first class of the day is RELG 220--Christian Ethics. Normally he looks forward to the class and hearing the various opinions of his students, but he fears that he just doesn’t have it in him to moderate a class discussion today. 

He’s right. The topic--Free Will vs. God’s Commandments--needs a much defter hand than he possesses today. He can’t concentrate on his student’s opinions, or on much of anything really. Every time the phrase ‘free will’ comes up (which is a lot, in a discussion based around the idea of free will), a jolt runs through him, the same one that he had immediately after the dream: he’s missing something important. 

Thirty minutes into class, Castiel can’t take it anymore. His head feels like it’s about to split in half and an unpleasant ringing takes up residence in his inner ear. Snatches of conversations flit through his memory--_”Team Free Will”--”I’m hunted, I rebelled, and I did it all for you”--”I’m doing this because of you”_\--which would be annoying enough, except Castiel knows that he’s never had these conversations. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, cutting into the middle of a student’s diatribe. He has no idea what he interrupted; it might have been a debate about shaken versus stirred martinis for all that Castiel was paying attention. His students, unused to the raw note in his voice, halt their conversations and look at him with varying degrees of concern. “I, ah, I’m not feeling well,” which is not a lie. “I’m going to end class early. I’ll see you Thursday, where we’ll pick back up. Check the syllabus for the reading assignments.”

Several of his students look worried, but free time is free time and they’re all stressed students. No one fights him on the issue, though several do wish him better health as they leave. Castiel thanks them, leaning against the desk up front. When it’s quiet, he slumps into the chair, rubbing at his temples until his thumbs ache. 

What the hell is wrong with him? It’s not like he and Dean never argue, but it’s not like him to pick fights first thing in the morning. And not being able to finish a class? He taught with an appendix that was several hours away from rupturing (that had sparked his and Dean’s most vicious fight). He doesn’t cancel class because he’s feeling odd. 

Except apparently he does. Castiel rubs his temples again, straightening his posture when he hears a hesitant voice. 

“Professor Novak? I’m sorry, but I just have a really quick question.” 

Castiel squints through his worsening headache. He knows, with a bone-deep certainty that he’s never seen this student before. Yet, with the same certainty, he knows her name and what she made on her last paper. His stomach twists uncomfortably at the discordant knowledge and something in the back of Castiel’s mind whispers at him to _run_. 

“Ali,” he says, trying to hide his sudden nerves. “I’m sorry, but can you just send me an email? I’m really not feeling well.” 

“It’ll only take a moment,” she says earnestly, stepping too close. On her face is an avid, hungry expression. It reminds Castiel of feeding time at the zoo, the tiger’s eyes focused with predatory intent on the hunk of meat. The whisper becomes a scream, but he’s frozen in place. 

“I have...I have to go,” he says, voice trailing off in a pathetic whisper. 

Ali sits on the edge of his desk. Something inhuman glints behind her eyes and...Castiel blinks and bites back nausea as he glances at her arms. Tattoos crawl and slither around her skin like malevolent snakes. A sickly blue gleams from her fingertips, and he needs to leave, he needs...oh god, his dream, Dean, and Sam, and Jack…

“Are you sorry yet Castiel?” 

Ali’s voice pierces through the panicked haze of his brain. “I don’t...I can’t…” Castiel mumbles, fumbling at straws. Sorry for what?

Ali sighs in frustration as she directs a disappointed frown in his direction. “I expected more from heaven’s most ferocious warrior,” and Castiel should have been paying better attention, this young woman is obviously deranged… “I thought that I was being nice,” she says, before she reaches out and grabs his wrist in her hands. 

Castiel smothers a scream as the pain of her touch rockets through his body. Everything crashes into his brain--the bunker, angels, Dean, his Dean, the real Dean, his grace, Jody, the djinn-- “You,” he snarls, snatching his hand back. “This is all your....” he gestures at their surroundings. 

“Well yeah.” Ali shrugs. “Honestly, I thought that you would have figured it out with the domestic wonderland this morning.” At Castiel’s silence, she snorts in laughter. “Come on, you didn’t actually buy that, did you? I’ve told some whoppers in my day, but that one...that one was stretching it, even for me.” She laughs again, privately. “I mean, even in suburban hell...You don’t think that Dean Winchester would be satisfied with a has-been, do you?” Castiel’s chest twists. “You were honestly starting to piss me off with your whole ‘woe is me’ bullshit, so I cut this one short, but come on. I mean, you saw what was going to happen, right?”

She rolls her eyes at Castiel’s continued silence. “He was never going to stay with you. The fighting in the morning, the inference that your son was pointless? Castiel, spoiler alert, he was going to drop you like a two-penny whore.”

“No,” Castiel chokes out, the memories of his and Dean’s morning together warring with the memories of Dean casting him out--_You can’t stay here Cas. You’re dead to me_\--She’s right, oh god, she’s right, but even now, he won’t give her the satisfaction of knowing it. 

“Whatever. What I really want to know is, are you sorry yet?”

“Sorry for what?” Castiel pushes himself straight in the chair. “You were attacking and killing people; I’ll not be made to feel guilty for protecting the innocent.”

“Oh please.” Ali’s pretty face twists in disgust. “I was the best thing that ever happened to those pathetic losers. They died thanking me.” She leans closer to Castiel, close enough that he can smell the spices and fruit on her skin, close enough that the unnatural blue glow of her tattoos starts to work its magic, blurring the lines between reality and the dream. 

“But you, Castiel, oh you.” She breathes in and flicks her tongue out like a snake. “Imagine my shock at seeing my father’s murderer come waltzing through the door.” She looks at him, her eyes hard. “We all saw what you did, you and that bottom feeder Crowley. I watched through my father’s eyes as you tore him apart.” Her voice wobbles. “He was _eternal_, you bastard, he would have endured as long as the sands, and you killed him, all to fuel your petty revenge, your pathetic war--” She pushes away from the table, hands fisted in her curly hair. 

When she returns, a cruel smile lights up her face. “We had to adapt, afterward. Some chose ecstasy, some chose terror, but me?” Her tongue darts out again. “I chose both. It’s…” She closes her eyes. “It’s like the peanut butter and chocolate. Savory and sweet. I’ll wind you up with both until you’re so insane, you’ll be begging me to end it.”

“No.” Castiel wants to remain strong, but his voice breaks in a pathetic plea. 

“I’ve been nice to you so far, so let’s change it up.” Blue sparks at the end of Ali’s fingertips. Castiel can feel them fall on his skin, each one a scorching reminder of failure. “Let’s find out what you’re really afraid of.” 

“No!”  
\---

Darkness smothers at him, pushes down his throat until he’s choking with it. He can’t tell whether his eyes are open or shut, whether he’s standing or falling. Around him is nothingness. 

Empty. 

_Choose_, the air whispers around him. _Him or you_. 

Jack’s face springs to Castiel’s mind, innocent and joyful. His boy...all he wanted was to be _good_…

He knows how this will end. One of them will stay here. One of them will leave. 

It’s no choice at all. 

He opens his mouth to say so, when a tendril of something brushes against him and he can see--

_Darkness spreading through the world, swallowing everything in its path, spilling over into other worlds. Heaven’s light subsumed by nothingness, Hell burnt out and consumed in its greed. Souls screaming in agony and then--disappearing. _

_Sam and Dean, stand in the face of it all, woefully outmanned. They’ve never fought sheer, yawning nothingness. There is no gun, no knife, no spell that can help them. There is only the Empty, and its insatiable appetite. _

_Darkness reaches out for the brothers, wraps around their ankles and works it way up, consuming them--Dean’s face, an amalgam of terror and rage as the blackness wraps up his leg, to his waist, his chest, up to his face--_

“NO!” Castiel screams. The pitiful remnants of his wings flare wide in defiance as his grace explodes outward, more powerful than he can remember. He acts on instinct alone, pouring his essence out into the darkness, allowing it to ignite and burn away the shadow. He’s alight from within, blazing from the inside out. He’ll never survive this, but it’s worth it, it’s worth it, Jack, and Sam, and Dean--

Castiel’s screams are never ending, ripping through him, and this is what it means to _blaze_, this is what it means to _fall_\--

He comes to in a field, grass tickling at his nose. Beside him, Jack groans. The sound is as weak and defeated as Castiel feels. Footsteps rush at him as the sun beats down on his frame. There’s no happiness in waking, no joy in existing. 

“Cas! Jack! Oh god, oh hell--” Urgent hands roll his limp body over and Castiel moans in pain before he rolls to his side and retches. Nothing comes up but that doesn’t erase the taste of bile and blood in the back of his throat. Every part of his body aches--muscle, bone, organs, and skin.

He reaches for his grace to help heal his vessel and---Nothing, nothing, _nothing_\--

\--

_That’s weak Castiel. What are you really afraid of_\---

\---

“Cas? Come on, where are you?”

Castiel blinks, groans. He tries to push himself into a sitting position, but he’s weak and sluggish. When he finally manages to control his body, he squints through the dark. It’s the standard fare of warehouses, with the relics of long broken equipment littering the floor around him. Filth from the grimy floor is ground into the fine lines and whorls of his palms. 

Wait. 

As Castiel looks at his surroundings, hope sparks. The warehouse, the place where this all began...He was here earlier in the night, he came alone to find the djinn and he found her, oh god did he find her, but now he’s back where he started. 

“Cas!”

Bright joy sears through Castiel. He licks his dry lips and forces a swallow down his parched throat. “Dean!” he calls out, barely a rasp, but it must have worked, because Dean rounds the corner. He looks almost the same as the last time Castiel saw him, dressed in jeans and flannel, blade in hand. 

“Cas!” Dean rushes to his side, ungentle hands pushing and prodding Castiel. “What the hell were you thinking man, going off by yourself, haven’t I told you--”

“You’re right,” Castiel croaks. He reaches for the reassuring solidity of Dean. His hands touch Dean’s shoulders, his wrists. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

“For what?” Dean asks, his large hands on Castiel’s jaw, turning his face so that their eyes can meet. 

“I shouldn’t have left you, I should have gone with you.” Normally Castiel would be humiliated at the ease of his apology, but Dean is here, he came…“I never should have left,” Castiel mutters. 

“Yeah. You’re right.” 

Dean’s voice is oddly flat. A flicker of unease licks down Castiel’s spine, and he looks at Dean’s face for reassurance. He finds none. Dean’s eyes are hard and his mouth is set in a firm line. 

“You never should have even come here.” Silver glints in the corner of Castiel’s eyes, but he can’t see it, can’t move--_Merciless fists strike his vessel’s body, causing the skin to split and blood to flow, Dean’s ruthless eyes, void of pity as he flings his body down to the ground, and Castiel thought that he could contain the Mark, but perhaps he was wrong...He never thought that Dean would kill him, but perhaps he was wrong…_

“I don’t…Dean…”

“Angels should have stayed in heaven where they belonged.” No hint of friendship colors Dean’s words. “You come down here like you’re on vacation, destroy everything in your path, and then don’t stick around to clean it up. You just wing back to heaven and leave us to deal with the mess--”

“Dean, you know that I--”

“Shut up!” There’s no hint of his friend, of the man that he...Rage is the only emotion on Dean’s face, and for the first time in a long while, Castiel fears what he might do. 

“You’re a monster Cas. That’s all you are; all you’ve ever been.” Castiel finally sees what the silver was: Dean’s angel blade, glowing dully in the faint light. Fear courses through his body. Dean wouldn’t...Dean couldn’t… “Just a monster, just something else for me to hunt--”

The blade plunges down, parting skin and flesh, and Castiel _screams_\--

\---

_Closer, but we’re not quite there yet...Dig deeper into that pretty little head of yours, Castiel. What’s the thing that you fear most?_

\---

Sam’s arm, dangling at a sick, unnatural angle. Dean’s face, chalk-white, except for where the vivid crimson blood drips down his cheek. The dull ache in Castiel’s side and the wet feeling of blood running down his side to soak his jeans. _Your fault_, echoes through his head, in time with the harsh beats of his heart. _Your fault, your fault, your fault_\--

“Dean! Sam! Castiel!” Jack’s voice, terrified and thin, echoes through the house. 

Dean’s eyes meet Castiel’s, incomprehensible and distant, before he shouts, “We’re here!” 

Jack bursts into the room. Even from a distance, Castiel can feel the hypnotic swelling of his grace. It draws him in, like the tides of the ocean. Some twisted, small part of him hates it. The larger part of him just wants it. He’s useless to the brothers, he sees this now. He can’t even protect them from basic monsters, and when they’re injured, he can’t heal something as simple as a broken bone. 

Jack and Sam, arm newly restored, leave. Dean and Castiel are alone in the small room. Jack’s healing might have cleaned their bodies, but it can’t remove the scent of blood and fear from the air. Thick and oppressive, it hangs in the room and lingers on the back of Castiel’s tongue. 

“Dean, I’m sorry--” Castiel begins, but a quick gesture from Dean stops the words in his throat. 

“Just save it Cas, all right?” Dean looks into the distance, a small muscle in his jaw twitching as he alternates clenching and relaxing his fists. After a few moments, he turns back to Castiel. His face is a smooth mask, revealing nothing, but Castiel’s heart quickens its pace nonetheless. 

“It’s not your fault. I know that you want to help, but you...Every hunt we bring you on just seems to end the same way. At this rate it’s not going to end until someone’s killed.” Dean’s mouth twists in a frown. He still won’t look at Castiel. “I can’t...I can’t take the risk that it’s going to be Jack or Sam.”

A pounding starts in Castiel’s ears, followed by a high whine. He follows the movement of Dean’s mouth and his ears properly interpret the sounds into recognizable words. But he doesn’t understand. 

“You can’t stay with us,” Dean says, the words falling like a death-knell, like a guillotine. 

Castiel’s mouth moves, but no sound emerges. Those words, said to him again…

“You can’t do anything to help us,” Dean continues, either apathetic or unaware of how his words affect Castiel. “You can’t hunt, you can’t heal...you’re useless.” 

The words twist inside Castiel, ripping his innards apart. This isn’t how it happened, a tiny, insignificant part of him screams, but it’s drowned out by the words You’re useless, repeating in his head until they’re all he can hear, all he can think, all he is. 

“Dean,” he whispers, the words tearing at his throat. “Dean, please don’t--”

“You know that it’s true,” Dean continues. A ruthless sort of pity takes over his face, though it looks almost like he’s enjoying himself when he says, “There’s no way that you can help me, so why would I want you around?”

“Stop. Please.” 

“You think that we kept you around because we liked your company? Because of your sparkling personality?” He’s dying, he must be. This is what it feels like. “Cas, you were helpful. Like a little lap dog. But now...without your grace, there’s nothing that makes you special. There’s nothing in you that’s worth a second look.” 

A thin whine starts in Castiel’s chest before it escapes through his clenched teeth. He’s dying. He’s been stabbed, shot, exploded, shredded from the inside out, but this, this is true death--

“There’s no way that I would ever want you if I couldn’t use you.” 

Something explodes in Castiel’s chest. He thinks that he might scream; he’s not sure. The only thing remaining is the pain and fear. 

A voice echoes in his head. _Better Castiel, much better_…

Dean’s voice sounds again, shattering him. “You’re like dirty dishwater: once you had a purpose, but now you’re pointless.” Dean’s face pushes into Castiel’s vision, beautiful and cruel. “You know what you do with dirty dishwater?” One finger pushes into the hollow of his throat, obstructing his breathing just enough to make Castiel gasp. “You throw it out with the rest of the trash.” 

This time Castiel does scream. The effort nearly cracks him in half, but he screams anyway. He screams until he runs out of air, screams until his vocal chords are shredded, screams until he can taste blood in the back of his throat. 

“Enough.” 

When he dares to open his eyes, Castiel is alone. He’s shuddering on the floor of the filthy house. Bloodstains still litter his clothing. He draws in one shaking breath, then another. He can still feel the remnants of fear clogging his veins. 

“That’s what you’re most afraid of, huh?” 

It all slams back into Castiel, hitting him with the force of an anvil: the hunt, the djinn, the dreams. She wanted to see what he feared most in the world. 

“I’ve got to say, I did not see that one coming.” She perches on a pile of rubble, one foot idly swinging back and forth. “An angel, terrified of disappointing a human.”

“I’m not…” Castiel’s voice is hoarse and weak. He swallows before speaking again. “I’m not an angel. Not anymore.”

“Don’t argue semantics with me Castiel,” the djinn warns. “I’ve been in your head, remember? You and I both know that you were lost a long time ago.” 

“So now what?” Castiel asks the question with more bravado than he feels. 

The djinn smiles, perfect white teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “Oh, the possibilities are endless. Me personally? I think I like this. What do you say? Just a replay of your greatest hits, with a few new ones thrown in? I could keep you screaming until you died.” 

An endless loop of _You’re dead to me_, mixed with _You can’t stay here_, mixed with other scenes: _Dean putting Jack in the car and telling Castiel I’m sorry, but we just can’t stay here. I don’t love you anymore. Dean dying, choking on his own blood because Castiel couldn’t save him. Jack, trapped forever in the Empty because Castiel was too useless to help. Dean, hunched over Sam’s lifeless body, his eyes slicing through Castiel--You couldn’t save him, the one person who matters most to me in the world and you couldn’t even do that for me--_

They all flicker before Castiel’s eyes, each worse than the last, until he thinks that he might be sick with it. “No,” he croaks, too beaten to feel humiliated by the broken plea. “No, please.”

The djinn’s smile widens as she jumps down. Her fingers twist in his hair, yanking his head back so far that his muscles scream in protest. “What’s that?” she demands, giving his body a shake so rough that his teeth clack together. “Did I hear you ask me for a favor?”

When she releases him, Castiel drops to his knees. He focuses on the dirty floor and tries to keep from vomiting. “Please,” he mumbles. “I can’t…” He looks up at her and remembers what she wanted. “I’m sorry. For your father. I’m so...I’m sorry.” 

The djinn’s face twists in a series of contortions. Castiel has no idea what any of them mean, if she’s going to kill him outright or plunge him into another series of nightmares. She squats down next to him, her faintly glowing eyes surveying his trembling body. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “I know that you probably don’t mean it, but thank you.” She taps her fingers against her knee. “I’ll make a deal with you Castiel. What if I give you the perfect life? It’ll be like waking up to a dream, every day, for the rest of your life.” 

Castiel catches a hint of what she means. Waking next to Dean every morning, savoring in the warmth of their shared bed. Watching Jack grow and learn, delighting as he discovers more about himself, his powers, and the world around him. Facilitating that growth, teaching him how to live on his own, how to make his own choices. Seeing Sam settle down and find a life outside of hunting, one where he helps people and doesn’t go to sleep with blood on his hands. Spending his days with Dean, Sam, and Jack, creating a better world. Not a perfect one, maybe not even a good one, just a better one. Falling asleep with Dean’s scent in his nose, Dean’s hand resting over the beat of Cas’ beautifully mortal heart. 

“Yes.” Castiel’s voice wobbles as he nods. “Yes. Please. I...I want that.” 

The djinn reaches out, her fingertips glowing ethereal blue. “I thought that you might,” she murmurs. “It’ll be a lifetime. No pain, no fear, no doubt...just perfection.” 

Her fingertips are almost at his face. Castiel closes his eyes, ready to wake in a custom-tailored paradise…

_Castiel!_

The voice is unfamiliar and the sound of his name drags him out of his stupor. 

_Castiel!_

Jody. The hunt. The bodies.

_Castiel, if you can hear me, I’m here!_

Jody risked her life to find him. To save him. 

_Castiel! I’m here!_

He was about to succumb to a djinn dream, just so he could live out his pathetic fantasies. If Dean could see him, what would he say? 

The blade is exactly where Castiel knew it would be. It feels solid and heavy, real, in his hand. “This is just another dream,” he murmurs, positioning the blade over his chest. It’s nothing like the siren. “Just a dream.” 

He plunges the blade into his chest. For one, brilliant moment, there’s the searing pain, and then--

His eyes open onto the concerned face of Jody Mills. Her hands already work at the bindings on his wrists. An IV tube dangles uselessly, several drops of his blood still falling from the thin plastic. “Castiel, are you awake? Can you hear me?”

“Is this…” his voice breaks from disuse and forming the words hurts. Still, he continues. He needs to know. “Is this real?”

Jody’s face creases in concern. Her hands falter over the ropes before she continues, as smooth as if he’d never spoken. “Of course this is real,” she answers smoothly. She places a kindly hand on his face, for just a moment. “You think it would smell this bad if it wasn’t real?”

This is real. His wrists are bound and attached to a hook above his head. Jody works quickly, but Castiel can already feel the strain in his muscles. How long was he hanging there? How many lives did he live? _This is real_. Jody slices through the rough ropes and his hands fall limp at his sides. _This is real_, Castiel repeats in his mind. He stifles the instinctive cry of pain as blood starts to flow back to his numb fingers. _This is real_. 

Dean’s smile, brilliant in the morning dawn, his lips, the warmth of his body, the pure, uncomplicated love…

The body of djinn lays behind them, broken and small in the rubble. 

_This is real_.

Jody Mills is a kind woman. Castiel was always aware of it, but he understands the depths of her mercy as she says nothing when the tears start to wind their silent way down his face.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	7. watch your back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes a decision.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When the shrill sound of his ringtone shatters the quiet of his room, Dean reluctantly drags himself up from the fog of sleep. He gropes at the half-restored bedside table next to him and thumbs at the answer button. “Cas?” he asks, still groggy. “‘Sthat you?”

“Nope, sorry Dean, it’s just me.”

“Oh. Hey Jody.” Dean tries not to let his disappointment show in his voice, but he must do a pisspoor job of it, as Jody laughs at him. 

“Yeah, sometimes you’re not my favorite person either. Look, sorry to wake you up, but I’ve got a couple of questions.”

“Yeah?” Dean speaks around his yawn as he sits up and plumps the pillows behind him. “If it’s book smarts that you’re wanting, then you’d be better off talking to Sam or Jack.” 

“Somehow I don’t think that they’re going to be able to help me as much as you can,” Jody begins. Dean’s about to tell her to stow the cryptic crap when she does, in typical Jody fashion. “It’s about Castiel.”

At the mention of Cas, Dean’s every nerve is on high-alert. “Cas? You’ve seen him?”

“Yeah? He’s working a case with me in Jasper, South Dakota.” Jody pauses. When she continues, her voice holds a hint of uncertainty. “Did you not know that? I thought you two…” She trails off, but she didn’t really need to finish her sentence; he’s heard it before from demons, angels, hunters, monsters...You name it, someone commented on it. _The Winchester’s pet angel. He was your boyfriend first. The one in the dirty trenchcoat who’s in love with you. Attached at the...everything_. 

“Cas lit off about three months ago. He called. Once.” Dean’s chest is tight. “You had a question?”

“Well, more like a concern.” Jody’s voice is low. “Is he...I don’t know. This hunt…It was a djinn. I’ve never gone after one before, so I don’t know what’s normal and what isn’t.” 

“Are you ok? Is Cas ok?” 

“Yeah, yeah, we’re both fine. It’s just…” Jody sighs, harsh and exasperated. “He’s sleeping now, but on the way home from the warehouse, he was just...out of it.”

“Was he poisoned?” Dean’s heart rate kicks up a notch. First the siren and now a djinn...What the hell is Cas getting himself into? 

“Yeah.” Jody sounds guilty; there’s no need. From personal experience, Dean knows that there’s no stopping Castiel when he gets a notion in his head. “I was out searching for some leads and he ditched me. It took me a day to find him and when I did, he was pretty far gone.” Jody pauses and Dean knows there’s something else. “He asked me if it was real.” 

“If what was real?”

“I don’t know, but that’s what he said when he woke up: ‘Is this real?’ And when I told him yes...god Dean, I don’t think that I’ve seen someone that disappointed since I told Claire that I wasn’t going to pay for her tattoo.” 

Dean tries to breathe through the tight band constricting his chest. “Well, djinn get in your head, show you what you want to be true, or what you fear the most. I got poisoned by one a while back and it showed me some apple-pie life where everything was perfect. Then a friend of mine got hit and it trapped her in a loop of her nightmares.” 

What utopia did Cas see? What horrors? What could a millennia old being fear? What would make them happy? Dean has only one answer: Grace. The having it, and the losing it. 

Jody hums in understanding. “Well, you’ll rest easier knowing that she’s dead and burned. But Cas…” Jody sighs again. “I’m worried Dean. He looks terrible, he hardly eats, and getting him to sleep...I had an easier time with my two-year old than with him. I really think...I think that you should come out here and get him. Take him up to Vermont with you, let him get high off the maple syrup or whatever you do for kicks out there.”

The hand squeezing at Dean’s chest mercilessly tightens its grip. “You think that I haven’t tried?” He tries not to snap, he really does. It’s not Jody’s fault that Cas did the dip. But god, to hear that Cas is, was, in trouble, while Dean was here, worrying about wainscotting. “I’ve sent message after message asking, begging him to come. He’s not interested.” 

“Dean Winchester.” Despite the miles between them, Dean’s spine snaps upright at the whipcrack sharpness of Jody’s voice. “You stop sending invitations for that pity party right now, understand? Cas needs your help, so what are you going to do?”

Dean pauses for a moment. The bitter, hurt part of him wants to say screw Cas and screw helping, but it’s drowned out by the larger part of him that’s wanted Cas to be happy ever since he fell the first time, all those years ago. 

“I need to call a few people,” he says slowly, a plan forming in his head. “Jody, you’ve got a pretty good idea of what hunters are where, right?”

Jody replies in the affirmative, happiness oozing through the phone line. “Right,” Dean says. “I’m probably going to have to get that information from you at some point.” 

“You do what you need to do,” Jody replies. “I’ll try and keep him in Jasper for as long as I can, but I’ll let you know if he moves on.” 

“Ah Jody, you’re a dream,” Dean says. Jody says something no doubt vaguely complimentary and nice before she hangs up, leaving Dean alone in his quiet, half-finished bedroom.

His blood quickens with purpose as he slings his legs out of bed. Within moments, his duffel is packed with necessities and a few changes of clothes. A lifetime on the road taught him to travel light. 

He could leave right now. The Dean Winchester of a few years ago would have. But…

Dean runs his hand over the recently repainted wall. He’s come to appreciate this house, the strong bones of her. He’s come to look forward to his and Minnie’s talks, even the restoration work. He doesn’t want to leave all of this behind. He wants a place to come back to, a place to call home. 

He’ll talk to Minnie, tell her that a family emergency came up and he has to leave for a few days (weeks). Hopefully she’ll understand. There’s a look that comes up in her eyes, whenever Dean mentions something about family, that tells him that she understands that the definition of that word is more than just words on a page to him. 

His duffel bag sits on the floor like a promise. There are still people Dean needs to call, help he needs to seek, but the hardest part, the decision, is made. Cas is across the country, caught in a loop of misery and pain. Dean takes another turn around the room as he tries to rid his mind of images of Cas bleeding, Cas tossing and turning as he tries to sleep, Cas hurt…

Dean should have never let him go in the first place, should have put down his heels and demanded that Cas come with him. It’s too late now; it’s gone on too long. Cas has already suffered. But Dean can help. 

Dean can bring him home. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The sun hasn’t been in the sky for many minutes when Dean makes his first call. There’s a certain pleasure in calling this early, especially when he hears the irate feminine voice sigh a pathetic “What?”

“Morning Rowena!” Dean starts, more chipper and definitely louder than the situation calls for. “How are you this morning?” 

“I trust that you have an appropriate, world-ending reason for calling before the sun is up?” Once upon a time, the venomous hiss would have been enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck, but times have changed. Now, it just brings a grin to his face. 

“Just wanted to see if you were up to doing me a favor.” 

Rowena sighs into the phone, long and over-dramatic. “Then you should have waited until the proper hours to ask.”

“It’s kind of an emergency.” Dean drops the playful, annoying tone and gets down to business. “It’s for Cas.”

“What do you need?” Rowena too, is all business. Any trace of lethargy or irritation has vanished and in the background, Dean hears the faint sounds of someone getting down to business. 

“A tracking spell if you can swing it. I need to know where he’s headed next.”

A delicate pause follows his words before Rowena speaks. “I would have thought that you would known that, considering…” She lets the words hang in the air but Dean refuses to pick them up. After she realizes that he’s not biting, her voice takes back the short, clipped tones of a witch at work. “I can work something up for you. It would be easier if I had something of his, some sort of DNA or important item…” She clicks her tongue in her cheek, thinking. 

“Rowena, please tell me that you haven’t been saving his fingernail clippings.” 

“No, that’d be more your speed, wouldn’t you think?” she asks tartly. “I think that he might have left a pair of socks the last time he was here.” 

Dean’s not surprised. Cas tends to lose possessions with alarming frequency. He guesses that it comes from being an angel and never having to learn how to keep up with such mundane items as a wallet, phone, or clothing. Learning that Cas left a pair of socks at Rowena’s apartment isn’t surprising. 

Learning that Cas was at Rowena’s apartment is. 

“When did he come see you?” Dean asks, trying for casual, but failing miserably. 

“Is that a hint of jealousy that I detect?” Rowena sounds like she wants to continue, but thank whoever, she’s playing nice. “He stopped by about three months ago. Wanted some hex bags, just basic protection. I gave them to him, and sent him on his way.” 

“Oh.” Dean doesn’t know what he was hoping for; whatever it was, it wasn’t what he got. 

“Give me a few hours and I’ll get back to you.” Dean was expecting snark. He was expecting attitude, with a few creative Scottish curses thrown in just for extra flavor. What he wasn’t expecting was kindness. “He’s not in trouble is he?” 

“I hope not,” Dean sighs. “If he is, I’m trying to get him out of it.” 

“A few hours,” Rowena says firmly. “Give me that.”

She hangs up on him and Dean sets his mind towards the next conversation he needs to have.

\---

Minnie is the picture of understanding. 

“If it’s an emergency, then of course.” Her small hand runs soothingly up and down Dean’s arm. It’s such a small gesture, but he finds an absurd amount of comfort in it. “You need to be with your family.” She’s ushering Dean out of the house before he really knows what’s happening. “You just leave the instructions for the electrician with me. Anyone else that you have coming over?” 

“Not that I’m aware of.” Dean hesitates outside the Impala. “I shouldn’t be gone for longer than a week, maybe week and a half.” 

“You take all the time you need. Your family is…” Minnie’s face shadows for a moment, before she plasters a smile back on. “Well, sometimes, they’re all you have in the end, right?”

“More than you’d know,” Dean mutters. He slides inside, and looks back out the window. “I’ll call if it looks like I’m going to be longer. I really appreciate this.” 

“It’s nothing,” Minnie waves him off. “You go find your family and you bring him back home.” 

Her words echo in Dean’s head long after he puts the town of Battleborough in his rearview. _Find your family and bring them home_. Cas might be family, but he’s not Dean’s only family. 

It’s the matter of a moment to dial the foremost number on his phone. After that, it’s only a few rings until it picks up.

“Hi Dean!” 

Dean smiles. Jack’s unbridled enthusiasm can always manage to lift his mood. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“Not much. Sam’s been taking me to see the redwoods, and then we’re going to go hiking.” Jack, bless his soul, actually sounds excited for the prospect. 

“Yeah. Sounds...sounds swell. Hey, speaking of Sam, can you give him the phone? I need to talk to him.” 

Jack isn’t as naive as he used to be. He picks up on the edge in Dean’s voice and responds to it. “Is something the matter? Do you need us?”

“It’s fine. Or it will be fine. I just need to talk to Sam.”

The long pause tells Dean that Jack isn’t necessarily buying what he’s selling, but it’s followed by the sound of shuffling, and Sam’s muffled voice as he brings the phone to his ear.

“Dean? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, jeez. Does something have to be wrong for me to want to have a conversation with my brother?”

“Well, these days, yeah.” Dean winces. Sam doesn’t pull any punches. 

“Well, whatever gave you that impression?”

“Dean.” Sam hisses out in a softer voice, “Cut the crap. I know you. What do you want?” 

“I…” Dean sighs. This is the part that he forgot about: Sam will want him to talk about his feelings. “Look, it’s just some stuff that’s gone down with Cas and I--”

“You’ve spoken to Cas? How is he? Where is he?” 

“Jesus, Sam, calm it down.” An explosive sigh bursts out of Dean, one that he would never let Jody or Rowena hear. “I don’t know. I don’t know where he is.” Dean reconsiders. “Well, not really. I know that he’s in Jasper, South Dakota, but I don’t know where he’s headed to after he leaves there.”

Exasperation is prevalent in Sam’s long exhalation. “Dean, what the hell is going on with you two? I thought that by now you would have...I don’t know. Worked this out.” 

“There’s nothing to work out Sammy.” The words hurt coming out, for all that they’re true. He and Cas didn’t have a fight or a major blowout. They just...weren’t, one day, inexplicable as breathing. 

“Sure. Whatever.” Dean would be willing to bet that right about now Sam is sporting an epic bitchface. “What do you need us to do?”

“Well, depending on where he is, I might need you two to get to him and sit on top of him. Jody’s watching him right now but I don’t think she can keep him stationary for long.” 

“What the...Jody’s watching him? Since when does Cas need baby-sitting? Dean, what the hell is going on?” 

“He’s in trouble!” The words explode out of Dean. Too much pressure, built up over too many weeks… “I think that he’s bitten off more than he can chew, and I think that he needs our help.” 

“Of course we’ll help,” Sam says, his tone changing from confrontation to soothing. “Just let us know what you need.” 

“Can the kid find him?” That would be a good starting point. Not that Dean mistrusts Rowena, but he’s willing to bet that Jack’s tracking methods are more reliable than hers. 

“He’s tried, but he says there’s some kind of mojo blocking him. Maybe it’s those Enochian sigil tattoos Cas had.” 

“Hex bags.” Dean bites back a curse and cuts off Sam’s confused questioning. “Rowena said that he stopped by her place to pick up some hex bags for protection. What do you want to bet that he altered them to ward against any kind of angelic interference?”

It’s Sam’s turn to curse, though he doesn’t have near Dean’s passion or imagination. “The hell is he doing?” The question is obviously rhetorical, so Dean waits. “I thought...I thought that he would be over it by now. Just a few hunts, so he could prove whatever to whoever, and he’d be done.”

Dean doesn’t speak. He’d thought the same. “Look, I know that you and the kid are off doing your tour of whatever, but…” He bites at his lip. Find your family and bring them home. “When you’re done with that, you should wind your way up to Battleborough, Vermont.” 

Sam laughs softly over the phone. “What’s in Vermont? A charming B&B?”

“If I can fix it up, then yeah.” 

Sam’s laughter stops with an abruptness that Dean would find amusing if his heart hadn’t wound its way up to his throat. “Seriously?” he finally asks, with a caution which suggests he understands the delicacy of the situation. “That’s...that’s something.” 

“Shut up,” Dean mumbles. “I’ll call you when I know something more, all right?” 

It’s a clumsy attempt to switch the subject; Sam doesn’t call him on it. “You know that you can call for something other than that, right?”

“Yeah well. So can you.” 

An awkward pause follows his words. Dean didn’t mean to snap but between his worry for Cas and the stress from talking to Sam, he’s not at his best. Sam breaks it, with an unexpected question. “You said Battleborough, Vermont?”

“Yeah.”

Sam hums, in the way that means he’s dissecting an issue down to its bare bones. “You figure out where Cas is and if we need to come grab him. Then, we’ll head your way.” 

A weight lifts off Dean’s chest, one that he didn’t know he was carrying until it was gone. “Yeah. All right. I’ll be in touch.” 

He hangs up and tosses his phone onto the seat beside him. His foot automatically presses down harder on the gas pedal and the Impala, always eager for a boost, jumps forward. Highway disappears underneath them and before he knows it, Dean’s body relaxes back into the seat, the habit of a lifetime taking over. 

He’s headed for Jasper, South Dakota. There’s no real guarantee that Cas will be there, but it’s his best bet. 

Sam, Jack, Cas...If Dean’s lucky, the kind of lucky that hunters just don’t get, he might get to have all of his family under one roof once again.

\---

The phone ringing breaks the monotony of the drive. Dean fumbles for it, cursing when it doesn’t immediately leap to his hand. The screen flashes the name ‘Jody’ at him, and his heart sinks as he pushes the answer button. 

“Jody? What’s going on?”

“Dean.” She sounds stressed and maybe just a little guilty. “He’s gone.”

The words hit his belly like a punch and Dean reacts instinctually. “What the hell do you mean, he’s gone? I thought you were watching him!”

“Yeah, I was, but Dean, he’s a full grown-man, and before that, he was an angel. What did you want me to do, handcuff him to the bed?” 

“You know, that wouldn’t have been a bad idea! At least then you knew where he was! Now I’ve got no bead on him, no idea where he’s going…”

Dean bites off the rest of his words, clenching his jaw on bitterness and anger. Nothing he says is going to help. Jody already feels plenty bad, he can tell from her voice. Add that to the fact that she’s right...Castiel has the right and ability to make his own choices, stupid as they are. Jody did all that she could, short of actually hand-cuffing him to the bed. 

“I’m sorry,” he spits out. The apology is less than gracious, but Jody lets it go without comment. “Where was he headed?”

“Traffic cams have him heading on the east road out of town. Dean, I think...I think that he might be headed towards you.”

Dean scoffs at the idea. “Just because he took the east road out of town? You’ve got to come up with something better than that.”

“It’s just a hunch all right? But I’ve been doing this for a while and when I get a hunch, I’m usually right. Maybe you should head back home, stay put. Wait for him to come to you.”

The idea is tempting. Go back to Battleborough, back to the house. Spend his days in idle repairs while he waits for Cas to return…

“No. I can’t do that.” Not when Cas is out there somewhere, stabbing himself to kill a siren or dosed with djinn poison and questioning reality. Cas is more than capable of taking care of himself. Dean knows that, more than most. He’s seen Cas at his most terrifying, blue eyes gleaming with righteous wrath, the high whine of Cas’ grace rising...No, Cas is more than capable, newfound humanity withstanding. But Cas also doesn’t know when to stop. Dean understands that as well. He would have been dead, several times over, if Sam hadn’t been there to pull him back from the edge. Now it’s his turn to do the same for Cas. 

“Thought as much. How are you planning on finding him?”

“I’ve got a friend working on a solution. Hopefully it pans out.” 

“All right.” Jody sounds skeptical, but it’s kind of crappy plan. “Keep me in the loop on this, would you? He barely said five sentences to me, but I got kind of attached.” 

Despite everything, Dean smiles. “Yeah, he has that effect on people. No worries Jody. I find something out, you’ll be the first to know.” Dean taps at the steering wheel. “Hey, I finish up this house in Vermont, you’re going to come check it out right?”

Jody laughs, the sound free of mockery. “Yeah, no doubt. I’ll be up just time with everyone else to check out the foliage. Take care of yourself Dean. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“That cuts out pretty much everything that I was planning on doing,” Dean answers. He hangs up the phone before Jody can yell at him too much. 

The cheer that he found in talking to Jody vanishes swiftly after he hangs up. He hadn’t expected Cas to stick around forever, but he’d thought he’d be within fifty miles of him before he lit off. With him more than a day and a half’s drive away, there’s little and less chance of him picking up Cas’ trail, especially since Cas navigates with all the skill of a senile grandmother with a faulty GPS. 

His phone trills again and Dean snatches it up before it finishes the second ring. A swift glance affirms the identity of the caller and Dean punches at the answer button. 

“Rowena, tell me that you’ve got something.” 

“Is that any way to talk to someone who’s doing you a favor?” she asks primly. 

Dean bites back the automatic curse. For a witch with a trail of bodies longer than a CVS receipt, Rowena can be such a damn stickler about manners. “Please tell me you’ve got something,” he repeats, putting extra emphasis on the first word. “Cas just headed out of town and so far the only lead I have on him is ‘east’.”

“Well, all I’ve got to go on is a pair of socks. Clean socks too. Would have worked better if they’d been worn, then there would have probably been sweat or--”

Dean gags softly into the phone. Witches and bodily fluids. He likes Cas to the point of true stupidity, but dealing with sweaty socks is a level beyond that, reserved for mothers and weird old married couples. 

Rowena tsks, the sound full of disapproval. “So strange, the things that you hunters choose to be squeamish about.” She pauses, maybe so that Dean can try and argue, but he knows when he’s beaten. “Anyway. It’s shaky, but I’ve got a lock on his location. He’s headed through Minnesota right now, looks like he’s making his way towards Wisconsin.”

Years of living on backroads have given Dean a working knowledge of the highway systems of almost every state. He spares a moment to flip through his mental atlas. 

“Son of a bitch.” He grips the wheel tighter, shaking his head in disbelief. “Jody was right.” 

“Beg pardon?” Rowena asks. 

“Nothing. Just...someone told me something. Thought that it was too good to be true.” 

Rowena hums, but doesn’t respond. “Anyway. As of right now, it looks like ‘east’ was a good lead. I’ll let you know when he comes to a stop.” 

“Right.” A long pause follows, until Dean realizes what Rowena’s waiting for. “Thanks Rowena.” 

“You’re welcome!” Her voice is the kind of cheerful that sets alarms blaring in Dean’s head. “I’m sure that you’ll make it up to me somehow.” 

And that’s what he was afraid of. With a grimace, Dean bids her farewell and hangs up the phone. 

He trusts that Rowena will let him know when Cas comes to a stop, but then he’s still trying to play catch-up. By the time he reaches the town, there’s every likelihood that Cas could be back on the road again. While he might be headed towards Dean, he’s already been the victim of two rough hunts. There’s no guarantee that there won’t be a third. In fact, with what Dean can guess of Cas’ current mood, he knows that there will be a third hunt. And with the way things have been going for Cas lately, there’s no way that it doesn’t end bloody. 

Dean pulls off the highway at the first town that looks large enough to support a Starbucks. While he balks at paying four dollars for a damn coffee, the cafe has something that he needs: free wifi. He pulls out his battered laptop and begins the long search. 

It might have been a few months since he played this game, but he spent most of his life looking for leads. Those kind of skills don’t just disappear, and within the space of an hour and a half, Dean finds what he’s looking for. 

Three people in Elkhart, Indiana found mutilated. Officials suspected wild dog attacks, but couldn’t prove anything. All three corpses were missing their hearts. 

Dean’s almost embarrassed. Is this what monsters have come to now? If he weren’t convinced that it’s just a pack of newly formed, and therefore clumsy, werewolves, then Dean would be worried that someone was setting a trap. The signs are too obvious. 

Dean charts Cas’ likely course. If he travels the way that Dean thinks he is, he’s going to be going right by Elkhart, and this is too juicy of a job for any hunter to pass up. No doubt in his mind: Cas is definitely going to be making a pit stop in Elkhart, and when he does, Dean is going to be there to meet him. 

He reaches for his phone and taps out a quick message to Jody. 

_**closest hunter to elkhart, IN?**_

It only takes her a minute to respond. When Dean sees the name, his heart sinks. Not them. Anyone but them. Cas loathes feeling like he’s being managed, even when it’s the Winchesters doing the managing, so Dean can only imagine his mood when another hunter, _this_ hunter, shows up on the scene. He’d be just as liable to drive away from pure pique as to stay and work the case. 

Still. 

Cas is going to reach Elkhart before Dean. There’s no doubt about that. As obvious as these werewolves are, Dean’s willing to bet that it won’t be a lengthy hunt. There’s every possibility that Cas could finish up the hunt and be on his way before Dean gets to him. Knowing that, he really only has one choice. 

He grits his teeth and dials. After a few rings, the other line picks up and a posh, upper-class British voice answers. 

“This is Ketch.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	8. can't hold on very long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Castiel thought that he had previously reached the limits of his exhaustion, but he continues to find new depths. He nightly curses his humanity as he turns on lumpy mattresses, staring at the flickering street lights visible through the curtains. In the morning, after minutes of fitful sleep, he forces himself out of bed, body sore and aching and brain screaming for relief. 

It doesn’t make sense. Fatigue rests heavy in his bones, stretching insidiously through his body, so it should be a matter of moments to fall asleep. Yet rest remains elusive. It lurks on the edges of his awareness and something as little as a twitch of his toe can rob him of it. 

He forces food down his throat to keep starvation at bay. None of it tastes particularly appealing. The burgers and fries he gets from fast-food restaurants slide down his throat in a greasy lump and on the rare occasions he eats something that wasn’t microwaved, it tastes bland and grey. 

He knows that his body is weak. It’s mere steps away from failing altogether, and only his force of will keeps it upright and moving. It takes most of his concentration just to keep his eyes focused on the road. His vision blurs with alarming frequency and his hands have taken up a persistent tremble. No food and no sleep is a bad combination, one that Castiel’s warned Dean against on multiple occasions, yet Castiel finds himself falling victim to its siren song. 

_Keep pushing_, his mind urges. _Keep going, don’t stop, don’t stop_\--

Jody had done her best to keep him in Jasper. She’d pointed out that he was still weak from the djinn’s poison and needed his rest. She’d tried to tempt him with home cooked meals and her spare bed. It was appealing, the idea of stopping, of finally resting but…A restless, dissatisfied piece of him stirs and he knows that he can’t stop, can’t rest. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

Castiel takes the eastbound road out of town. He tells himself that he doesn’t have a destination in mind, same as he has since Nevada. He ignores the GPS and his own internal compass, ignores the glare of the rising sun as he bears consistently eastwards. 

Out of habit, he flips through the paper, laid out on the table in the diner. He gulps down the watery coffee as he quickly scans through the headlines. Nothing catches his attention until the second page, where the headline practically jumps out at him. 

**Three Dead in Wild Animal Attack**

He reads through the rest of the article and makes note of the important details. Bodies mutilated with signs of claw and teeth marks, and most importantly, hearts missing. By the time Castiel finishes reading, what little appetite he managed to work up has vanished and his coffee has surrendered the measly warmth it once had. 

Elkhart, Indiana isn’t far. Just a day’s drive, all things told. Castiel taps his fingers against the tabletop, considering. He’s in no shape for a hunt. Every movement his body makes tells him that he’s vulnerable. But innocent people are dying. The pack has already killed at least three, and if they’re a newly formed pack, they won’t be finished with just those three. 

Dean would help them. 

A quick change to his route is all that’s required, and Castiel sets his course for Elkhart, Indiana. 

_I’m sorry Dean_. 

\---

Elkhart, Indiana is a smallish town. It’s big enough to support at three motels, but small enough that several locals take notice of Castiel’s car as it pulls into the downtown area. Dressed in an increasingly wrinkled suit, Castiel pays them no mind as he strides towards the police station. 

He double checks the pocket on the inside of his coat as he enters the station, flashing his fake badge at the woman working the metal detectors. While he doubts that he’ll ever become skilled at the subterfuge which Dean and Sam engage in on a regular basis, he’s not as pathetic as he once was. 

“I need to speak to the detective in charge of the animal attacks,” Castiel tells the desk sergeant. He flips open the wallet, hopefully flashing his identification at her. 

Surprisingly, she rolls her eyes. Caught for a proper reaction, Castiel pauses as he tucks the ID back into his inner jacket pocket. 

“You’d think with all the damn problems we’ve got in this town, the government would take some time actually solving them.” Her complaint provides no explanation for Castiel, but she continues. “It’s like you guys crawled out of the woodwork.” She jerks her thumb over her shoulder at an interview room. “Your friend is with the detective there. They should be finished soon, so you can compare notes.” 

Castiel murmurs a quick thanks and walks away. “You know, this town has about ten unsolved murders and rapes,” the sergeant calls after him. “Maybe you want to work on solving them instead of accidents.” 

It’s not the first time that Castiel’s stumbled onto a case to find another hunter already nearby. Even though the network of hunters is more organized than it used to be, the old tendencies still exist. Hunters are solitary creatures, not given to checking in more than once or twice every three months, and Jody had complained about how hard it was to keep track of a group of quasi-nomads. Most hunters find cases exactly like the Winchesters and Castiel: by searching headlines for anything out of the ordinary, loading up the car, and investigating. With a search method that random, it’s inevitable that there would be some overlap. 

Castiel doesn’t enjoy working with other hunters in the best circumstances. Humans are erratic and unpredictable. He spent years learning how the Winchesters operate; he can’t be expected to trust another human in the space of a few days. 

These are not the best of circumstances. Castiel’s blood pressure rises to astronomical heights as he recognizes the man walking out of the room. 

“Ah yes, my associate that I told you about. Agent Marple, I was expecting you at least an hour ago.” 

Only the presence of a confused detective restrains Castiel’s sneer. “Sorry to disappoint,” Castiel says, spitting out the words like tiny grenades. “But I’m here now, so why don’t you tell me what you’ve learned?” He barely remembers the niceties of human interaction as he jerks his head towards the detective. “Thank you for your help.” He whirls on his heel and marches out of the precinct, blood pounding in his ears. 

Once he’s outside, Castiel darts to the side of the building, where not as many eyes are watching. He hears the footsteps following as he walks down the narrow alleyway, and waits to make his move. Once he determines that the footsteps are close enough, he twists, seizing Ketch’s shoulders and shoving him into the wall. Castiel keeps him pinned there with a solid hand against his chest. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Castiel’s snarl rumbles through his body. 

Ketch doesn’t bother to look intimidated. “I’m doing my job, same as you. Perhaps better since I was here first.”

When he was an angel, Castiel was able to feel his temper in the snap and flare of his grace, in the electrons firing around him, and the subtle currents of electricity sparking around him. Now, as a human, Castiel feels the pounding of his heart, the grinding of his jaw, and the tremble of his extremities. He clenches his fingers in the soft fabric of Ketch’s suit in order to hide the tremors, both from himself and from Ketch. 

“You can leave now.”

Ketch smiles, a tiny smug thing that makes Castiel want to slam his fist into that face repeatedly. “Come now. Two heads are better than one, isn’t that what they always say?”

Against his will, Castiel’s upper lip curls. “I have no need of your help.”

Ketch’s eyes move up and down his body while Castiel fights the urge to flinch. He knows what Ketch sees: a middle-aged man of average height and weight, but with a gap in his shirt collar that speaks of weight too quickly lost. His suit is wrinkled and a persistent stain lurks around a buttonhole on his shirt. One of his shoes is untied. The shadow of day-old stubble dots his jaw and his eyes are shadowed and sunken. He does not paint an impressive picture. 

His true form...it was beyond human comprehension. It was the glory of god, put into action, wrath and ecstasy sheathing phenomenal power that could shatter coastlines. It was a thousand voices, raised in song and hope, screams mingled with song. It would burn the sanctimonious eyes right out of Arthur Ketch’s head. 

Now he’s enclosed in the aging body of Jimmy Novak, and his former self is nothing more than a wisp clinging to the corners of his memory. Ketch is right to sneer. Castiel would too, were it not him caught in this predicament. 

With a convulsive motion, Castiel releases Ketch, who immediately straightens his suit with tiny, fastidious motions. “You’re not looking so good angel...or...whatever you are these days.” 

“I’m more than capable of dealing with you.” Castiel lifts his chin in challenge. His blade shifts against the small of his back and his gun is a heavy weight at his waist. His fingers twitch towards the weapons. 

“Are you?” Ketch sounds bored, damn him. “Perhaps once, yes, you were. But now?” One corner of his mouth ticks up in a parody of a smile. “Would you like to see?”

For one wild moment, Castiel considers. There’s little else that he would find as satisfying as putting his knuckles into various places on Ketch’s body. At his side, his fists clench in anticipation. He can almost feel it--the crunch of cartilage, flesh bruising, blood pooling in the small wrinkles of his knuckles. The thrill of the fight sings in his blood.

With effort, Castiel relaxes his fist. The opposite corner of Ketch’s mouth twitches, copying its counterpart. Shame licks hot against the back of Castiel’s neck and cheeks, but he keeps his jaw set and his posture straight. He commanded garrisons, once. He will not flinch. 

“Good.” Now that he’s won whatever pissing contest they were competing in, Ketch’s voice softens. “So what do you say that we put these wolves down and then go out for a celebratory burger and beer? That is the American way, no?” 

“I don’t need help and I certainly don’t need your help. Stay out of my way.” 

Castiel walks out of the alley and doesn’t bother to see if Ketch follows him. His anger carries him all the way to his car. He slams the door so hard that the frame of the car rattles. Afterwards, he sits in the front seat, trembling with poorly restrained rage. 

He’s not weak. He’s not. Castiel repeats it to himself until the words blur together in a frantic plea. He’s not weak. He’s human, but that doesn’t make him weak. He killed a siren, he fought his way out of a djinn dream, he could have laid Arthur Ketch flat on his back. He’s not weak. 

In the rearview mirror, Castiel’s eyes stare back at him. If those eyes were on Dean or Sam’s face, then Castiel would force them to rest. But there’s no rest for him, no peace. Every time his head hits the pillow, all he sees are his nightmares. Dean dying, Jack trapped in the Empty, Sam’s twisted and broken body...The images clog the twilight haze of his brain until Castiel chokes with horror. 

But worse than the nightmares are the dreams where he’s taunted with lives he’ll never possess. In those dreams Dean, grins at him through a nest of blankets. Castiel creates a home which Sam and Jack visit eagerly and often. He sees a life where he gathers what is precious and keeps it safe. He dreads those dreams, not because of their content, but because of the waking that comes afterwards.

Sometimes, when he’s at his weakest, Castiel acknowledges that he regrets waking from the djinn dream. He misses that world in the same way that amputees mourn their missing limbs. A perfect life, one where he could be with Dean and there would be no pain, or loss...Just people, living their lives. 

Castiel scares himself with how much he wants. 

Without sleep, food becomes less and less important, until it’s a necessary nuisance. He eats when he remembers, most of it tasteless fare: granola, browning bananas, canned vegetables, and soup that tastes like metal. Castiel chokes it down until the hollow ache in his stomach is appeased. 

He can take care of a delinquent pack of werewolves. He can do this. 

He’s not useless. 

\---

The sun has set and night settled in on the forest as Castiel starts into the woods. All of his research and tracking have led him to this sparse collection of trees and scrub. The town is close enough to serve as a viable hunting ground, while still being far enough away that the wood serves as an adequate sanctuary. Castiel moves forward on the dirt path, keeping his eyes on the faint light ahead, instead of the oppressive darkness pushing in all around him. 

Ketch had tried to follow him around town. Castiel had seen the motorcycle darting in and out of traffic, always a safe distance behind him. He’d seen Dean employ the same tactics when trying to follow a target. Castiel dragged his truck through the small streets of Elkhart, doubling back on his tracks and darting down sideroads until the motorcycle was nothing more than a memory in his rearview. As he heads into the woods, Castiel is convinced that he’s alone, which is how it needs to be. 

Under the cover of darkness, Castiel creeps closer to the clearing. Either these are newly made wolves still testing their abilities, or they’re so arrogant as to believe they’re immune to persecution, because they never tried to cover their tracks. Shadows flare wildly over the trees and Castiel freezes, pressing his back against a trunk until he’s sure that he wasn’t spotted. 

He has both the gun and his blade. His blade is the more familiar weapon, but Dean always said to use the gun when hunting wolves. _They’ve got teeth and they’ve got claws Cas. Why the fuck would you want to get close enough for them to use them? You’re not invulnerable anymore; you’ve got to think about shit like that._

Dean had at least had the courtesy to look vaguely ashamed at his words, though not, as Castiel noticed, enough to apologize. Perhaps he didn’t think that an apology was required. After all, Dean said nothing which wasn’t true. Perhaps he didn’t mean the words to sting as much as they did. 

Despite his misgivings, Castiel hefts the gun in his hands. He’s not a bad shot--he doesn’t load with the same thoughtless surety as Dean, nor fire with Sam’s pinpoint accuracy, but his aim and hands are steady enough. 

Castiel creeps closer to the clearing, catching snatches of conversation. His skin crawls as he hears the wolves describing their latest hunt, and the terror their last victim as she was run to ground. Sometimes he can feel sympathy for wolves: after all, the majority of them are victims themselves and don’t understand the changes happening to their bodies and minds. This pack however, provides no shade of grey. Castiel will put them in the ground and feel no remorse for doing so. 

Castiel peers around the trunk of the tree. Two figures sit in the clearing around a small fire. They’re concentrated on the many scattered bottles around their feet and the cooler with several more waiting. If Castiel were given to moments of levity, he would smile. Sometimes it’s almost too easy. 

He levels the gun at the back of the closest figure. Perhaps Sam would raise an objection, say that it wasn’t fair to shoot someone in the back, but Castiel’s idea of justice is more biblical than Sam’s. These werewolves didn’t offer a choice to their victims. The moment their claws and teeth tore into human flesh was the moment that they forfeited their right to have Castiel judge their case with pity. 

He squeezes the trigger. 

The bullet strikes the first wolf square between the shoulders. They don’t even have time to cry out before they slump over, dead. The second wolf freezes for a moment, confusion writ on her face, before she snarls and springs up from her seat. A silent curse flashes through Castiel’s mind as he slides around the tree and into the clearing. He anticipated losing the element of surprise, but he’d hoped for longer. 

The forest is quiet around him. Not even the bugs dare make a sound. Castiel strains his ears to their utmost, listening for the snap of a twig, the rustle of a branch, the whisper of a breath. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Here, in the dark wilderness, the werewolf has the advantage. 

The gun feels heavy and cumbersome in his hands. The grip slides in the sweat beginning to spring from his palms and Castiel wastes precious seconds wiping his hands on his jeans. His blade presses against the small of his back, heavy like a promise, but Castiel ignores it in favor of the gun in his hands. _Use the gun_, the memory of Dean’s voice urges him. _Trust your eyes, trust your aim_. 

The advice would be easier to take if there were anything to aim at. Castiel slides around the edge of the clearing, sticking to the shadows. It’s a futile hope that the wolf can’t see him; there’s no doubt in Castiel’s mind that it has his scent by now. Hiding himself is useless. 

If hiding is pointless then...Against the instincts screaming at him to seek shelter, Castiel takes one step forward, and then another. This is stupid, this is suicide, but there’s no other way to force the wolf out into the open. 

Castiel keeps walking until his shadow dances across the clearing. He’s exposed, every bit of him open to the whispering woods. The hair on the back of his neck and his arms stands up in alarm and danger teases the vulnerable stretch of his shoulders. Flee, his brain whispers, hearkening back to days when humanity’s ancestors cowered in fear of darkness and the unknown. Flee, flee, flee. 

Castiel steps over the corpse of the first werewolf. His eyes are open, fixed on the sky with an expression of confused disbelief. His fangs and claws aren’t even fully extended. Castiel didn’t afford him the luxury. 

He shoves at the body with the toe of his boot, all the while scanning the treeline. “Was this your friend?” he asks the woods. Somewhere out there, a werewolf watches. He has to force her to make a mistake, and the best way of doing that is to make her angry. 

“You know, I knew that this hunt would be easy when I started. I wasn’t expecting it to be this easy.” Castiel’s voice echoes through the trees. It bounces back at him and he barely recognizes his own cadence in the sound. “This was borderline pathetic. I’ve had a harder time picking out what to eat for breakfast.” 

Dean is better at taunts. When Castiel had his grace, there was no need for such juvenile behavior. A mere thought and he could be halfway around the world, grace already stretching out to engulf his quarry. Mocking his prey never crossed his mind. What point was there in taunting something as far beneath him as an ant was to a human?

But now...Now he has no grace, no power, nothing other than his own wits and whatever strength rests in his body. “I thought that wolves were supposed to be loyal,” he calls into the blackness. “I wonder if your friend would have stayed and fought for you. Or would he have run away like a dog?” 

A low growl breaks the silence. Castiel’s head whips around, trying to locate the source, but it’s simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. He steadies his breathing and looks through the trees once again. Once again, there’s no hint of movement. 

Castiel rests his foot on the body. He exaggerates the movement, ensuring that it can be seen from every angle. His stomach rolls unhappily, but there’s still a wolf in the woods that needs to be put down. “After I’m done here, I’m going to toss both your bodies into the fire. They’ll be able to smell the stench from at least a mile away.” 

Another growl sounds, closer this time. Castiel fights the flinch as he turns. “I’ll make sure to get the teeth as well.” He puts a sneer in his voice. “You know what the angels say about wolves?” The growl rumbles through the woods, continuous and furious. “They say that they’re worse than filthy half-breeds. Not worth the effort it takes to skin them for their mangy pelts.”

The growl rises, crazed in its intensity. Castiel catches a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and turns just in time to dodge an attack. The wolf lands at the opposite end of the clearing and turns to face him. Her fangs gleam white in the faint moonlight and her claws click against each other in a deadly promise. 

Castiel squeezes the trigger, but she’s fast and anticipates his movements. She dodges and his bullets miss. He shoots again, but she disappears into the trees, leaving no hint of her whereabouts. The growl remains, scraping across his nerves as it rises and falls in an eerie parody of a song. 

“Worthless cowards is what they call wolves,” Castiel tries. “Too afraid to face a foe singly, so they have to hunt in packs.” 

The growl stops abruptly. Its absence is more disturbing than its presence. Castiel turns, uncaring of whether or not the wolf sees his disquiet. The silence lasts for a few beats of his heart, before it’s replaced by a low, rolling chuckle. 

_Flee, flee, flee_ screams through his veins. The gun in his hands feels like little more than a toy. Here in the wilderness, with nothing to protect him, Castiel feels flayed and laid open for all eyes to see. 

“You got one thing right.” The wolf’s voice dances through the trees, tripping up right next to him. Castiel turns and turns, until a flash of light catches his eye. The wolf steps out of the forest, her head held high. A triumphant smile bares her fangs. “We do hunt in packs.” 

Castiel squeezes the trigger, but she dodges yet again. He tracks her movements and squeezes, only to hear an empty click. Out of bullets, how stupid, how _useless_…

Another flash of movement catches his attention and Castiel has just enough time to feel the panic--

Packs. Werewolves hunt in packs and packs are made up of three or more. 

The third wolf’s claws rip into his shoulder as he barrels into Castiel. The ground rushes up to meet him and a scream tears from Castiel’s throat as the wolf yanks his claws free. Blood rushes up to fill the wounds, gushing down his arm. 

His hand gropes for the blade at his back as he struggles up to his feet, but he doesn’t seem to have full control over his arm and his motions are slow and predictable. He barely has time to wrap his fingers around the hilt of his blade before both wolves are on him. He slashes wildly. Judging from the howl of pain, one of his blows must land, but his own scream rises to join the pained yelps as claws rake across his chest. 

Castiel chokes and wheezes, his breath catching in his torn chest. He’s losing blood--too much and too quickly. These wounds make his self-inflicted stab wound look like a mere scratch. His legs buckle, unable to support him, and he drops to his knees, still slashing at anything that comes near. The wolves throw their heads back and howl their triumph and why shouldn’t they--He’s dying, his vision blurring and fingers numb--

Dean. He wanted to see Dean one more time, see him laugh with Sam, see the pride in his eyes as he looked at Jack...Maybe, if he was lucky, hear the faint note of fondness in his voice when he spoke to him...He’d wanted...he’d wanted so much and now each pathetic hope disappears with each fatal pulse of his heart. 

The wolves come closer and Castiel puts all of his remaining strength into a graceless lunge. They easily dodge his stumbling attempt, circling around him. Claws rip into his back and chest, shredding his skin, and a cry rips out from Castiel’s throat. He falls forward, pain jolting through his body. He might scream, he might not. He’s unaware of the sounds spilling out of his mouth, unable to stop them. His free hand scrabbles at the ruin of his chest in a futile attempt to heal himself. 

No grace...he can’t heal himself, can’t save himself…

Several blasts echo through the clearing, followed by a sharp yip and then a howl of rage. A strangely familiar voice calls out, “Go Winchester! I’ll take care of the other one!”

_Winchester_\--

“Dean,” Castiel says, or at least tries to. Blood rises, thick and coppery, in the back of his throat. It dribbles out of his mouth and over his chin. A cough wracks his body, sending razor blades of agony through him. “Dean?”

“Cas! Cas, what the hell--” A thin whimper escapes through Castiel’s clenched teeth as hands pull and grope at his failing body. “Oh god, oh fuck, Cas--”

Castiel blinks. The motion is slow and labored, but it does bring the world into view. Green eyes hover over him. He blinks again, and the rest of Dean’s face comes into view. He looks so worried, so distraught…

“Dean,” Castiel sighs. His eyelids are heavy, unbearably so. “Dean, I’m sorry--” He coughs again, his body seizing as he cries out. 

“No Cas, no, stay with me you bastard. Come on!” 

Castiel almost sobs as Dean’s hands push against his chest. It’s agonizing, horrific. Dean’s going to tear him apart, but what a way to go. 

His eyelids are too heavy and his vision is going dark at the edges. “Sorry,” Castiel whispers, allowing himself to float away, somewhere that the pain can’t follow. “Dean, I’m sorry…”

Blackness descends and Castiel drifts away. Each thread keeping him tethered to the earth snaps away, until only the sound of Dean’s voice keeps him anchored. 

“Cas! Come on Cas, don’t do this, don’t you dare, you son of a bitch, come on!” A strangled sound catches in Dean’s throat. “Stay with me! Cas! Castiel! Please Cas, stay with me!”

The final thread snaps and--

“_Cas_!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	9. can't help myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dean’s eyes track the jagged lines of the heart monitor as he matches his breathing to the steady beeps. It’s been hours now, and his ass is starting to ache from the hard plastic of the chair, but he can’t leave. Not now, maybe not ever. At least not until Cas wakes up. 

It was only in the last few hours that the doctors were able to tell him with any certainty that Cas would wake up. Until then, it was conjecture and _we’ll have to hope for the best_, combined with _he’s fighting very hard_, and the one that sent the nurse scurrying from the room with the force of the glare Dean aimed her way, _We’ll just have to pray about it_. 

Yeah fucking right. Prayer’s never done him a damn bit of good. Not to deadbeat God and certainly not to Cas. The only thing that’s ever done him good is perseverance, so he sits and waits. Maybe he hopes somewhere along the way, but he sure as hell doesn’t pray. 

Three months. Three months of waiting for whatever scraps of communication Cas allows him, three months of hoping, of wishing...Three months, and his reward is Cas’ unconscious body in a narrow hospital bed. 

Not that he’s been looking, but Dean knows the size and shape of Cas’ vessel...well, his body. He knows that Cas is just shy of six feet and comprised mostly of muscle. He knows full well the perfectly normal, human strength held in those arms and legs. None of it is currently visible. Cas looks tiny underneath the thin white blanket. One hand lies limp on his stomach with a white heart monitor attached to his index finger. Dean watches the rise and fall of that hand. It’s the only visible proof, outside the static green lines, that Cas is alive. 

It had been so damn close. Just two minutes later, hell, just a minute later...Cold fear spreads through Dean’s chest. 

Ketch had called when he was just two hours outside of Elkhart. Dean had answered the phone, hoping for the best but expecting the worst. Ketch’s words only confirmed his suspicions. 

“Your boy isn’t much for playing with others.” Dean rolled his eyes and bit back the automatic curses which sprang to mind. Ketch was doing him a favor. “I was told in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t going to work with me.” 

“Yeah. I was afraid of that.” An explosive sigh longed to burst out of Dean; he restrained himself. “All right. Just...keep tailing him. I’m still a few hours out; I’ll call you when I get closer.” 

He’d driven faster, if that was possible, and pulled into Elkhart just after dusk. A quick phone call had given him a location and he’d driven as close to the edge of the woods as he could. There he’d met Ketch. 

“He went in about thirty minutes ago,” Ketch informed him. “No idea that he was being followed. Truth be told Winchester, I don’t think that your lad is playing with a full deck.” Dean grunted and hoped that Ketch would drop this topic of conversation. “He’s not taking to humanity well is he?”

“Don’t we need to be quiet so that we can keep the element of surprise?” 

The bluntness got his point across and it was with silence that he and Ketch entered the woods. With nothing more to go on other than instinct, he and Dean headed towards the center of the woods, following a barely visible dirt path. Nothing nefarious caught his attention, and Dean was just about to suggest that they move to a different part of the woods when they heard it. 

He had occasion to hear Castiel’s voice in a variety of situations. In eleven years, he’d heard Cas angry, amused, disgusted, horrified. He’d heard him in pain. But he had never, never, heard Cas like this. 

The scream was torn from Castiel’s lungs, from a place deeper than pain. It ripped through Dean and he was screaming too, a wild bellow as he rushed forward, heedless of Ketch’s arm pulling at him, or the sudden interest of the wolves as he burst into the clearing. 

His arm was up and he was firing before he was aware that he’d sighted a target. He kept firing, kept squeezing until he was finally aware of the hollow sound of the magazine clicking empty, empty, empty. Ketch’s voice was little more than a dull smear across his mind, even as the Brit pushed at him to go. All he could hear was the sound of Cas’ screams, coalescing into a dull roar of despair swirling through his brain.

And then, when he finally reached Cas…

The doctors and nurses at the hospital did a hell of a job. During bandage changes, Dean had a chance to witness the careful sutures that knit Cas back together. Little assembly lines of stitches that pulled skin and muscle back together, that kept blood and organs inside his body, where they belonged. 

At the time, in the clearing, Dean looked down at the shredded remains of his best friend, the man that he--the person that he--_And all the King’s horses, and all the King’s men, couldn’t put Humpty back together again_... 

There was so much blood. He couldn’t stop it, and Cas was wheezing and gasping underneath his hands, pained little whimpers escaping through his clenched teeth as Dean pushed down on the ruin of his chest. His hands were slick with Cas’ blood, slipping over his chest and what remained of his shirt, and all the while Cas was trying to speak, trying to apologize, even as the blood dribbled out of his mouth and spattered on Dean’s shirt. 

And then later, in the emergency room. Those dreadful few seconds, waiting for Cas’ chest to move, waiting for the shriek of the machines, while it seemed like his whole existence balanced on the knife’s edge. Dean died a little there, in that room, and has yet to be fully resuscitated. 

Dean’s eyes catch a flicker of movement. He looks closer, holding his breath as he waits. A few short seconds later, his unspoken wish is granted. Cas’ fingers twitch once, then again, this time with an accompanied jerk of his hand. The spikes on the heart monitor increase in frequency. The high pitched sound scrapes against Dean’s nerves, but he pushes it to the back of his mind when he sees the grimace on Cas’ face. 

It takes Cas a long moment to struggle up to the surface. His eyelashes flutter on his cheek while he groans, soft and low, in the back of his throat. At his bedside, Dean waits on tenterhooks. What is he going to say to Cas? 

“What?” The question escapes before Cas’ eyes are even open, in a long, pained, exhalation. “Where…?”

“Hey. Hey, Cas buddy. It’s fine, it’s all good. You’re ok.” Dean’s hands clench on the plastic sides of the bed as Cas coughs weakly. 

“What?” Cas’ voice comes stronger as his eyes open in thin slits. By now, the heart monitor is practically screaming, wailing a constant warning that makes an unwelcome home for itself in Dean’s mind. “No. No.” Though his movements are weak and sluggish, he’s still able to take Dean by surprise as he paws at the tube of oxygen hooked around his ears and pumping into his nose. It flops off, and Cas turns his attention to the IV hooked in the back of his wrist. 

“No, Cas, what the hell are you doing,” Dean mutters. He takes Cas’ wrists in a loose hold and promptly has to strengthen it when Cas starts to fight against him. 

For someone who’s been unconscious the past two days, Cas is pretty damn strong. Dean grunts as he pins Cas’ wrists to the bed, trying to be careful of the wounds littering his torso. “Cas, Cas, it’s me, calm down!” Dean has to shout over the scream of the heart monitor, and why the hell haven’t any nurses come into help? “Cas, you’re in the hospital, you’re fine, it’s fine, Cas, it’s me!”

None of his shouting seems to have any effect. If anything, Cas only struggles harder, his eyes wide and wild as he pushes against Dean’s hold. No hint of recognition lights in them, and no matter how many times Dean identifies himself, Cas continues to fight him. He twists and bucks and Dean can only think of the thin stitching holding him together. 

“I need some help here!” Dean bellows over his shoulder. Finally, he hears the sound of rushing feet and before he can blink a veritable army of nurses surrounds Cas’ bed. 

“We’ve got this,” one tells Dean as she quickly and efficiently shuttles him over to the side. When he tries to muscle his way back to Cas’ side, she’s no longer gentle. A firm hand planted on his chest stops Dean cold and this time her voice brooks no disobedience when she snaps, “Stay back sir.”

Dean watches from the sidelines as two nurses push down on Cas’ shoulders, keeping him stationary, while another pushes a syringe into his IV. “What the--what are you giving him?” Dean demands. 

The nurses look at each other before turning their attention back to him. “It’s a mild painkiller and sedative. It should calm him down without putting him completely under.” Her eyes flick over him. “You’ll be able to talk to him.” She doesn’t bother to hide the suspicion in her voice, not that Dean blames her. You show up to the hospital, in an area not typically known for its bear attacks, with a bleeding man near death and all you can say is that _There was a bear, a bear got him_, there’s bound to be some questions. Thankfully, the nurses have no other proof other than their suspicions, or else, in addition to everything else he’s dealing with, Dean would have the police on his ass. 

Whatever the nurses gave Cas must work quickly. Only a few moments pass before Cas slumps bonelessly back into his pillows. His eyes are closed, but Dean knows that he’s awake from his faint grimace when the nurses pull aside the edges of his gown to check the bandages covering his stitches. Cas’ breath comes in short, shallow pants as the nurses talk in low voices overtop him. 

“Well, Mr. Winchester, lucky for you, you didn’t pull anything.” Dean doesn’t miss the way that Cas startles at the name, or how those blue eyes fix on his. In their staring game, it’s Dean who blinks and looks away first, leaving Cas to focus back on the nurse. “You need to be more careful though. I know that you had a nasty shock, but too many sudden movements are going to leave you in a world of hurt.” The nurse continues telling Cas about the painkillers he has access to, as well as the sedative that he just received. “So you just lie there and focus on getting better.” The nurse’s eyes slide over to Dean and then back to Cas. “I’m going to leave you two alone. I’m sure that you have a lot to talk about.” She points to a large red button at the side of Cas’ bed. “You just push that if you need us, all right?”

Cas nods and the nurses leave as swiftly as they enter. Dean doesn’t miss how the warmth in their eyes fades when they look at him. Truthfully, he doesn’t care, not when Cas’ eyes pin him to the spot against the wall. Underneath that gaze, Dean is defenseless. Always has been. 

“I, um, I didn’t have my regular stuff with me, my cards and stuff. I had to make something up on the fly and uh…” Dean scrubs at the back of his neck. If it had been awkward while he was giving the nurse his information, it’s infinitely more so now, having to explain himself to Castiel. “Well, they don’t let anyone into the ICU who isn’t family, so I had to--”

“I understand.” Cas’ voice comes out in a soft rasp, barely audible from across the room. “You don’t have to explain.” 

Dean blinks. Caught for a conversation, he shuffles his feet along the brightly polished tile floor. The intake nurse had just nodded when Dean had come out with _Husband, he’s my husband_. It had been a little hard to think, as he watched doctors with bloodstained gloves leaning over Cas’ prone body, but the words, as soon as they were out of his mouth, settled into someplace inside him, one that felt right. _He’s my husband_. 

And now Cas says that he understands, which is certainly possible, but his face is...His eyes perform a slow journey around the room, focusing on the window, the TV playing some soap opera in the background, the rough fabric of the blanket. In fact, the only thing he doesn’t look at is Dean. 

“Well okay then.” Dean’s voice might be gruffer than usual, but hell, it stings a little when Cas takes the revelation that Dean called him his husband, that Dean was all right with calling Cas his husband, and treats it like some trash he found on the sidewalk. “That’s great.”

Cas’ eyes move to him, but only for a moment, and then he’s back to studying the weave of the blanket. “The wolves?” he asks. All his attention is seemingly focused on picking at a stray thread, but Dean notices the sudden tension in his arms and shoulders. 

“They’re taken care of. We took care of them.” Cas nods once, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Dean watches it and tries to ignore the pressure building in his chest, but he can’t. It all spills out in “Cas, what the hell were you thinking--”

“I’m tired,” Cas says. The words fall onto the conversation with finality, like the thud of a sledgehammer. “And I hurt.” He reaches for the small button that the nurse told him would dispense the painkillers.

Before Dean has a chance to let his brain catch up to his actions, his hand reaches out and slaps the controller out of Cas’ hands, where it clatters harmlessly on the floor. Cas jerks his head up, surprise and indignation on his face, but Dean doesn’t see it. Instead, he’s seeing a nightmare vision, Cas with a loopy, drugged smile on his face, a Cas who felt the loss of his grace so keenly that he ran towards the nearest chemical in an attempt to dull the pain. Dean wrenches himself away from those visions and comes back to earth. He’s breathing hard, like he just finished a sprint. With effort, he releases the tension in his fists and jaw until he can pretend to be normal. 

“Dean,” Castiel says softly, twisting the blanket between his hands. “Dean, it hurts.”

His first reaction isn’t one he’s proud of. It’s a vindictive little twist of his gut, a snide voice saying _Well, it’s no more than you deserve_. The second that Dean thinks it, he hates himself, but that doesn’t make the thought go away. 

“Yeah, I know,” he finally ends up saying. He bends down to pick up the controller. He turns it over in his hands and pretends like he doesn’t catch the way that Cas’ eyes fixate on the small piece of plastic, the same way that he pretends like he doesn’t catch the pained hitch in Cas’ breathing. “Just...let me be the one who decides how much?” Cas is silent; his eyes suspicious. “Please. Trust me.” He says the words, knowing that he hasn’t given Cas any reason to trust him. 

The look on Castiel’s face is incomprehensible. Once, Dean had thought that Cas being human would mean that he was easy to understand. He was a fool. Here, in a gaping hospital gown, dressed in bandages, with a purpling bruise on a cheek riddled with stubble, Cas has never been physically weaker. Dean doesn’t understand him any better for it. 

The silent battle of wills ends when Cas falls back into the pillows, a puppet whose strings have been cut. His fists relax in an unwilling gesture of surrender. “Fine,” he says, and it’s not a ringing endorsement, but Dean takes what he gets. 

Red numbers spike upwards as Dean presses down on the small button. All the while, he keeps his eyes on Cas, watching the tension bleed from his form. Cas’ eyes fall shut as he exhales a long, relieved sigh. “Thank you,” he says, voice already thick and groggy. 

“Yeah,” Dean replies. He sits on the edge of Cas’ bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. He still can’t shake off the feeling that somewhere along the way he took a wrong turn and now he’s traveled so far from the path that he’ll never find it again. 

He swallows the worry down the best he can as Cas’ breaths deepen and shift into regularity. “Just go to sleep, all right?” Cas makes an attempt at a nod. Dean reaches out and brushes his knuckles against Cas’ forehead. “I’ll be here. Just sleep.”

Cas makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. Dean thinks that Cas might push into his touch but before he can confirm that, Cas has slipped away into unconsciousness. Dean keeps his fingers touching Castiel’s skin for a while after, just to be sure.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The second time Castiel wakes, he knows what to expect. He frowns unhappily at the thin tubes of plastic still hooked around his ears and leading up to his nostrils, but at least he understands their purpose. It doesn’t mean that he likes the sensation of cool oxygen being pumped directly into his nose. It seems redundant, especially when his own lungs are perfectly capable. 

Even worse than the oxygen tube is the IV attached to the back of his hand. Under no circumstances, he was told quite sternly, can he remove the needle. No matter how much it pinches and hurts, he’s not to pull it out. The nurses told him that it was giving him essential nutrients, as well as rehydrating his body and giving them easy access to administer medication. Castiel wasn’t wild about the idea of chemicals being pumped into his body, though he does have to admit that the painkillers were nice. They turned the world fuzzy at the edges and stifled the ever-present howl of pain which existed in the back of his mind. 

In fact, he thinks, as he winces in discomfort, he could use another dose. The stitches pull at his tender skin, causing pain to race through his body no matter how he tries to rest. His body feels too tight for its container, and every time Castiel tries to breathe, his ribs ache at the motion. Lack of pain sounds like a wonderful thing right now. 

Castiel reaches for the controller, before he remembers. He told Dean that he wouldn’t self-administer the drugs. He told Dean that he trusted him enough to let him decide. Cursing his stupidity, Castiel glances around the room. He finds Dean in the corner, folded into an uncomfortable looking chair. His head rests on his shoulder in a way that Castiel knows from experience will leave his back aching when he wakes. 

Dean came to find him. Once again, Dean had to pull him out of a mess of his own making. Humiliation rises hot in the back of Castiel’s throat as he thinks about it. The simplest hunt and he couldn’t even do that right. If he were able, he would leave before Dean wakes. He doesn’t think that he could bear seeing the irritation, or worse, the pity, in Dean’s eyes when he looks at him. 

“Mr. Winchester, you’re awake.” The main nurse bustles into his room. Castiel appreciates her efficiency and her swift, capable hands. She’s pleasant but not cloying like some of the other nurses. Her tag says that her name is MacKenzie, and Castiel makes a note of it. “How are you feeling today?”

“I’m fine.” Castiel answers her questions with a tight smile. From the look in MacKenzie’s eyes, he’s not fooling her, but she doesn’t challenge his lie. “But please.” He nods towards Dean in the corner, still asleep. Guilt twists in Castiel’s stomach: Dean is not typically a heavy sleeper. He must be exhausted to sleep through a stranger coming into the room. “I don’t want to wake him.”

Something gentle shines in MacKenzie’s eyes as she wraps the cuff around his upper arm and starts pumping. She places two fingers on his wrist and starts counting, keeping her eyes on her watch. After a minute she releases the pressure and slides the cuff off his arm. “110/70. Perfectly normal. You know, for someone who almost got mauled to death three days ago, you’re looking remarkably good.” Castiel tries to lift his shoulders in a shrug, only to hiss in pain as the gesture pulls uncomfortably at his stitches. MacKenzie’s expression turns sharp as she inspects the bandages. “You still need to be careful,” she scolds, after ascertaining that he hasn’t incurred any damage. “The faster that these heal up, the faster that you can go home.” 

Home. Castiel feels stupid for not considering it before now. Where is he going to go after this? Obviously, he can’t return to hunting, at least not right away. He could always use one of his credit cards and hole up in a hotel room, but the prospect of doing that fills him with a vague dread. 

The obvious answer is in front of him, curled up in a chair. If Dean is still here, then obviously he must want something from Castiel. Given that every time they’ve spoken, Dean has asked Castiel to come join him, the pieces fit together in a manner that’s glaringly obvious.

Want opens up in the pit of Castiel’s stomach, as sudden as the floor dropping out from underneath him. To go back with Dean, to see the house that he’s so proud of, to be near him every day, to recapture some of the essence of living in the bunker…To not be alone.

Something must show on his face because a soft, understanding hand settles on his shoulder. “Hey, everything all right?” MacKenzie perches so that she’s half-sitting on his bed. 

“It’s fine,” Castiel says, ignoring the thick sound of his voice. 

MacKenzie frowns, but not angrily. More like...He’s seen Sam make the exact same face, when someone was hiding something from him and he was determined to get to the bottom of the matter. It’s an expression born out of friendliness and concern, and that knowledge sparks a warm glow in Castiel’s chest. “Seriously,” she says, settling in. “You can tell me anything. I’m not allowed to repeat what a patient says, so go for it.” 

“You have other patients to attend to.”

“Nah.” MacKenzie smiles at him. “Plus, if administration get on my back then I can always say that you were dying or something. So spill. What’s so wrong with going home?”

Castiel chews on his lower lip. It’s against his nature to speak about his doubts and concerns, but the promise of secrecy piques his interest. He’s heard the same statement repeated on several television shows based on doctor’s lives, so there has to be a kernel of truth somewhere in that statement. 

“I don’t have a home,” he finally says. “Not really. I used to. I used to live with my…(_not family, they’re not his to claim, he hasn’t had a family since Heaven_) my friends, but then they left and I’ve been alone ever since.”

MacKenzie’s face wrinkles in confusion. “But I thought…” She looks over to Dean, still asleep. “I thought that you two lived together.” 

She means it kindly, but her words just send a spike of pain through Castiel. “No. We used to but he, uh, he moved out.” _He left me_, echoes through Castiel’s head, but he doesn’t say it. 

The confusion still lurks on MacKenzie’s face. It clashes with the sadness in her smile. “Well, even if he did move out, he still cares for you. You should have seen him when you first came in.”

Part of Castiel wants to hear about Dean’s behavior. He wants to soak up any hint of Dean’s concern and care, like a plant too long deprived of nutrients stretching out towards the sun and greedily sucking down the water offered to it. The other part whispers that it’s not for him to know. If Dean wanted him to know, then he would have told him.

MacKenzie glances at her watch. “Crap. I really do have to finish my rounds.” She gets up from Castiel’s bed, but doesn’t leave his room. “But if you need anything else, even if it is just to talk, just push that button, all right Mr. Winchester?”

That name again. The first time Castiel heard that name applied to him, his heart had slammed against the barrier of his sternum. All he could remember was the djinn dream, the one where he had been married to Dean, where his name was actually Mr. Winchester. The thought that Dean had thought of him with that name was the only comfort in a world filled with pain, confusion, glaring lights, and screeching alarms.

Foolish. Dean had explained his choice, in the roundabout way he used whenever he was uncomfortable about a topic, and Castiel had understood. Castiel’s Mr. Winchester was just another brother to Dean. Which was fine. If that’s all that Dean wants, then that’s what Castiel will be. He knows from experience, that something is always better than nothing. 

“Cas. You can call me Cas.” 

MacKenzie smiles and waggles her fingers in a wave as she leaves. Castiel manages a wan smile as he pushes the pain of _Mr. Winchester_ down deep inside him, someplace untouchable where all the other hurts and pains from his existence lurk and wait for an opportunity to escape. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	10. forgive me pretty baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of bad decisions.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

For five days, Castiel plays the part of the perfect patient. He follows the instructions of the nurses and doesn’t scratch at the healing line of his stitches. He asks for help whenever he needs to go to the bathroom, even though the glare on his face promises death to those who get that unfortunate job. He even stops bitching about the IV tube, though he never does stop poking around the edges of it, all the while giving Dean a hangdog look like he’s somehow personally responsible for this indignity. Still, Cas says nary an unkind word to either Dean or the nurses for the rest of the week.

It’s damned suspicious, is what it is. 

Cas is a grumpy son of a bitch at the best of times, which these certainly are not. Even with the nurses lingering over him, Cas is in pain and Dean ends up pushing the button and pumping morphine through his system several times throughout the days. Not once does Cas ask for it, but the tightness at the corners of his eyes and mouth betrays him. Every time the meds rush through his system, Cas reacts the same way: he lets out a low sigh and slowly sinks back into the pillows. The sheer relief on his face would be enough to make Dean happy, if it didn’t worry him so much. 

Even the reliance on chemicals isn’t enough to spark Cas’ temper. Nor is Dean’s near constant presence in the room. The only time he leaves is when Cas is getting his sponge bath from the nurses (which he accepts with atypical good humor) or when he ventures to the cafeteria to get his share of rubbery hospital food. He takes quick showers in Cas’ bathroom and makes friends with the nurses so that the term ‘visiting hours’ have a different definition when applied to him. 

Through all the trials and tribulations that the hospital visits on him, Cas never slips. 

Of course, just because Cas is suddenly, mystifyingly, synonymous with compliant patient, doesn’t mean that he and Cas have any sort of meaningful conversation. Cas spends most of his days dozing or watching whatever trash program happens to be playing on the TV. Dean brings him a few paperbacks and Cas flips through them with varying degrees of interest. Several times Dean tries to engage Cas in conversation, but each time Cas begs off, claiming either exhaustion or pain. 

Cas’ emotional constipation is normal, if irritating. Cas’ continuous goodwill is something else, and as long as it continues, Dean remains suspicious. 

Which is why, when he returns from his latest trip to the cafeteria to find Cas’ room empty, Dean doesn’t panic. He doesn’t panic when none of the nurses seem to know where Cas disappeared to. “Maybe he’s taking a walk?” one suggests, with a half-hearted shrug. 

“Yeah. Right.” Cas is really not the ‘take a walk’ kind of guy. He’s the ‘wing off to the Swiss Alps’ kind of guy, or at least he used to be. He’s also the ‘sneak out of the hospital at 11:45 pm’ kind of guy, using a sugar sweet facade as the perfect cover for an escape attempt. 

He catches up with Cas in the parking garage. If Dean wasn’t so pissed, it would almost be funny how Cas jumps when Dean clears his throat. Cas might have the nurses fooled, but it’s been twelve years and Dean’s gotten to know his tricks pretty well by now. It took him less than ten minutes to track him down, from start to finish.

“Planning on going somewhere?” Cas doesn’t answer, which is as good of an answer as anything. Somehow, he managed to get his hands on some of Dean’s clean clothes, but he’s still wearing hospital slippers. The whole outfit is absurd and if Dean weren’t so incandescently furious, it would be amusing. As it is, Dean steps forward, close enough so that if Cas tries to make a run for it, he can catch him. “That was smart, taking the IV with you. The nurses all think that you’ve gone for a walk. Of course, we both know better, don’t we?” 

Cas stares at a place beyond his left shoulder, mouth set in a firm, stubborn line. The longer the quiet lasts, the angrier Dean gets until he’s practically choking on his frustration. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Cas blinks at him with his stupidly large, guileless eyes. It only fans the flames of Dean’s ire. 

When Dean seizes his arm just above the elbow, Cas lets out a small, wounded noise. It might signify pain, it might signify surprise, Dean’s not sure. The only thing he cares about is that when he tugs on Cas’ arm, Cas follows. 

Dean’s still seething, irritation pacing his brain like a tiger trapped in a cage. Cas’ words do nothing to soothe his temper. “I just wanted…”

“What? You wanted to drive me crazy wondering what shit you managed to get yourself into this time?” Cas tries to jerk away, but Dean just tightens his grip. He’d be willing to bet that tomorrow morning, five circular bruises will adorn Cas’ arm. Great. Just something else for the nurses to glare at him over. “You wanted to dip out without a word to anyone?” 

The elevator dings. It’s with an ungentle shove that Dean puts Cas in the elevator before stepping in himself. He stabs his thumb in the general direction of Cas’ floor and then waits as the elevator rises. The air vibrates with unspoken tension, and Cas stands as far away from Dean as he possibly can while still being in the same elevator. Cas keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the farthest corner, which just so happens to be the corner farthest away from Dean. Cas’ right hand reaches up to his left shoulder, thumb stroking over the edge of a bandage, just barely visible under the collar of his shirt. 

The sharp twist of guilt mingles unpleasantly with the anger still roiling in his gut. Cas left him. When Dean was standing there, hope in his hands, Cas looked at him and walked away. Dean has every right to be angry, but in that same vein...Cas shifts and grunts, deep in his chest. The corners of his eyes draw tight with pain and exhaustion. Cas is still hurt. Cas almost died. Those moments in the emergency room slam into Dean, leaving him with a visceral pain that morphs so easily to nausea, which morphs into the words he’s tried so hard to restrain--

“Your heart stopped.” 

The words rattle in the quiet of the elevator like a stone in a tin bucket. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Cas’ head snap over to him. Finally, finally, he looks at Dean, surprise and horror in his eyes. Dean swallows down the lump in his throat, but it doesn’t stop the words from tumbling out. 

“When we got to the hospital, before the doctors started really working on you...” Panic rises, hot and acidic, in Dean’s chest. “Your heart stopped, Cas. You were dead.” Dean puts as much punch into the words as he can, puts enough snap into his words that a physical blow might hurt less. Cas’ mouth falls open and Dean should probably stop, but he can’t. Not with the memories of Cas’ too-still body lying on the table battering against his skull. 

“Dean, I…”

Dean rounds on Cas, furious at the stupid look on his face. Cas only ever shows concern for Dean, or for Sam, or for Jack. Never himself. Never himself, and that’s how they end up in this mess in the first place--

“You were _dead_,” Dean snaps, because Cas needs to understand the terror of mortality. “Half your blood was in the forest, the rest of it was on the hospital floor, and your heart stopped beating.” Castiel flinches at the words and at the finger Dean digs into his unhurt shoulder, but it’s not enough. Dean can see it in his eyes--he doesn’t understand. 

The slow drip of blood from Cas’ fingers to the floor, the rush and hurry of nurses and doctors around his body. The cries of _He’s coding_ mixed with the blaring alarms of the machines as a team of nurses wheeled in the defibrillator. The rip of Castiel’s shirt as they attached the paddles to either side of his chest. The nurse pushing a syringe of adrenaline into Cas’ limp arm, the flop and jerk of his body as the current pumped through his body. The seconds stretched out into eternity as Cas’ body remained still. 

“I thought that you were...That you’d...I couldn’t...I couldn’t get to you in time.” It had all come back: Cas outside that shabby little cottage, the brief blaze of happiness in his chest at seeing him stumble, alive and well, out of the portal. The grief and horror that squeezed his heart until he choked at seeing the blade coming out of Cas’ chest, the relentless dread suffocating him as he knelt beside Cas’ motionless body. The knowledge that this was it, that Cas wasn’t coming back from this, the knowledge that he would have to live the rest of his life without ever seeing the squint of Cas’ eyes, the purse of his lips, the rare radiance of his smile. And then, to have to experience that again, to see Cas’ body so close and yet so far away, and know that there was nothing, nothing, that he could do... 

The elevator shudders to a stop. As soon as the doors open, Dean wriggles out. He can’t be near Cas anymore, can’t hear any more useless apologies. He can’t think about all the times that he failed Cas, like he failed every other godforsaken person in his life. 

Even as he walks away, he can still feel the weight of Cas’ eyes heavy on his back. 

\--

A day later, Cas is discharged from the hospital. 

The nurses give them sheafs of paper on proper wound care and how to spot the warning signs of a potential infection. Dean thanks the nurses and takes the papers, knowing that he’ll throw them away as soon as possible. After the life he’s lived, there’s not much he doesn’t know about how to care for stitches. The nurses also rope him into making an appointment to get Cas’ stitches removed. Dean ponders over a calendar before setting an appointment that he knows he won’t keep. 

In three weeks, he and Cas aren’t going to be anywhere near Elkhart. 

Dean made up his mind the night that he caught Cas in the parking garage. He’s not going to let Cas go off by himself again. If that means that he has to stick to Cas like a burr on a dog’s ass, then so be it. If that means that Cas ends up hating him...well, then, that’s the price that he’ll pay for keeping Cas alive. 

Cas wordlessly follows him to the Impala. Other than the few supplies and prescriptions they received from the hospital, he carries nothing. Ketch, in a rare fit of helpfulness, went by Cas’ truck and retrieved all of his hunting supplies and clothing before he left, so there’s nothing keeping them in Elkhart. 

“What about my truck?” Cas asks as they pull out of the parking garage. 

He directs his question to the road ahead instead of to Dean, which more than likely influences Dean’s answer. “What about it?” His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “We’ll get you another truck.” 

Cas sighs and turns his attention to the passenger window. For three hours, that’s where he stays. 

For his part, Dean stares ahead at the road. The only time he takes his eyes off the double yellow lines is when he switches cassettes. After he fumbles around at Cas’ feet for the shoebox, Cas toes the box closer to his hand. It’s the only time he deigns to acknowledge Dean’s presence. Dean’s jaw aches from grinding his teeth, but if Cas wants to be an immature brat, that’s his business. Dean isn’t going to beg Cas for the courtesy of a simple conversation. 

Only the rumbling of Cas’ stomach draws Dean’s eyes away from the road. “Are you hungry?” 

It takes an eternity, long enough for Dean to think that Cas might just ignore him, for Cas to drag his attention away from the gravel strip of the shoulder and look over at him. He does his staring routine until Dean repeats the question. Cas thinks for a moment, then raises his shoulder in a production worthy of a Broadway stage. “I could eat,” he finally mutters.

“Great.” Dean rolls his eyes as he focuses his eyes back on the highway. “Awesome.” 

He’d been so ridiculously glad for the opportunity to see Cas again, almost giddy when he thought about it, and now it’s all turned to shit. All of his dreams about a Cas who voluntarily participated in helping to build a home vanish in the wake of Cas’ unsmiling face. His expression never changes, even when they pull into a roadside diner which proclaims the best burgers in the county. 

The burgers are all right. Cooked a little long for Dean’s taste. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Castiel knows that he’s being unfair, but he can’t help it. Irritation simmers low in his gut and no matter what he does, he can’t seem to shake it. He watches the unending stretch of highway spool out next to him and tries to find some peace in the monotony, but his mind is a jangling chorus of conflicting thoughts. 

First and foremost is Dean’s tiny, damning confession: _Your heart stopped_. 

The line of stitches criss-crossing his chest speaks as to the amount of his injuries, but somehow, he’d managed to fool himself into thinking that it wasn’t that serious. To learn that his body had failed him, to learn that Dean had been witness to that moment of weakness...He’d come to terms with the idea that one day he would die, or at least he’d thought he had. But to hear that he’d come so close on just a routine hunt...To _fail_ that badly…

Dean hadn’t even let him apologize. He’d just stormed out, leaving Castiel alone with his guilt and shame. He couldn’t blame Dean. If he were capable, then Castiel would have left himself behind as well. 

And now…

Dean’s anger is a tangible thing. It fills the normally spacious Impala until Castiel can barely breathe around it. In its presence, he can only ruminate over every one of his shortcomings which led to him being cooped up in a car with nothing but Dean Winchester, his meager possessions, and his thoughts. 

He’d thought that it would be better for both of them if he just...wasn’t there. Dean would be able to return to his house and settle back down, far away from any memories of failure, of blood and gore in a forest clearing. Castiel could find a hotel room where he could lick his wounds in peace. Eventually, he could return to hunting. 

Dean had ruined that plan, and at first, Castiel had been glad. Perhaps Dean wanted him nearby. But now he sees the error of his thinking. Dean doesn’t want him close by out of any sense of loyalty or friendship. No, Dean wants to punish him. 

What he’s being punished for, Castiel can’t quite determine. Hunting? Failing at hunting? Trying to leave? Having the temerity to live? Whatever it is, Dean’s disapproval weighs down on his shoulders until they ache from the pressure. 

The day passes in stifling silence. Castiel has nothing to say. Every conversation topic he thinks of sounds trite and flat against the oppressive silence in the car. Dean doesn’t bother to speak to him. When it comes time to change the music, he slams the cassette into the player with all the force that he no doubt wishes he could unleash on Castiel. 

When he lost his wings, one of Castiel’s favorite pastimes in the car had been helping Dean pick out music. He knew Dean’s favorite tapes and would occasionally indulge him, but Dean also had a wide collection of music, which Castiel delighted in sampling. Sometimes his choices brought an intrigued look to Dean’s face, while other times Dean bemoaned his taste, but Castiel always enjoyed the ritual. 

Truth be told, Castiel enjoyed riding in the car with Dean. The loss of his wings he felt with a visceral pain, but he’d also learned to appreciate the subtleties of road trips. The aforementioned music. Dean’s love of snack food, as well as his continuous efforts to have Castiel join him in snacking. Best of all were the conversations that would occur between songs, where Dean would ask Castiel his opinions on various books or historical events, or Dean would ramble about his favorite TV shows, places he’d been to, or stories about childhood hunts. Castiel could have listened to him talk for hours, and he did. 

Dean’s stony silence stretches until evening. Shadows fall on the road and Dean’s steering becomes wobbly. Castiel wonders if he should offer to take over driving so that Dean can have a rest. With his current ill-temper, he doubts that Dean would allow him behind the wheel of his beloved car, but perhaps he’s exhausted enough to take him up on the offer. 

His ponderings become a moot subject when Dean pulls into the first motel they come across. The neon lights splash across their faces as Dean parks the car. Without saying a word, Dean gets out of the car and slams the door behind him. Castiel remains in the car, hands clasped in his lap, muscles and bones aching from the strain of the day. It’s not until Dean raps sharply on his window that Castiel moves. “What, you think you’re spending the night out in the car? Come on.” 

With reluctance, Castiel gets his bag from the backseat and follows Dean. He listens as Dean requests a double room. A double room. Two beds, shoved on opposite sides of a room, but still close enough to touch. A double room, the kind that friends get, or brothers, or business partners, or veritable strangers. A room designed to keep people separate. Dean takes the keycard from the half-asleep receptionist and sets off towards the room. Castiel follows, caught in Dean’s wake as always. 

For all of his angsting, the room is nothing special. It has the particular musty smell that all cheap motel rooms seem to share and Castiel’s nose wrinkles as he’s assaulted with it almost immediately after he enters. The carpet and bedspreads are offenses to the eye, but it won’t do any good to complain, not when Dean is in a mood like this. The beds loom large; the space between them insurmountable. 

Dean tosses his bag down on the bed closest to the door. Castiel tries not to read anything into that gesture, but Dean’s pointed look shatters his willful ignorance. Dean is choosing to pick that particular bed so that Castiel will have yet another obstacle on his way to freedom. If he were willing to put forth the effort, then Castiel would tell Dean that his efforts are wasted. He looked around the parking lot when they arrived; there are no cars for Castiel to steal, and even if there were, he has no idea where he would go. His desire for escape has vanished. All he wants now is to sleep. 

“Do you want the shower first?” Dean’s voice is hoarse with disuse. The sound of it, after its pointed absence all day, makes Castiel startle in surprise. 

“That’s fine.” He could use a shower. Underneath his clothes, his bandages are starting to itch, and when he moves the right (or wrong) way, he catches the scent of something verging on foul. His skin aches for a shower. Underneath Dean’s caustic gaze, he grabs the necessary items from his bag and ducks into the bathroom. 

He undresses swiftly and uses the knife from his back pocket to cut the bandages lacing around his torso. The edges stick to his body, and the fabric yanks at his still healing stitches as Castiel starts to pull them apart. He hisses low through his teeth at the faint stabs of pain. Not that Castiel thinks he would, with his current mood, but he doesn’t want Dean investigating any sounds of distress. 

Eventually, he wriggles out of the bandages. The sight of his reflection makes Castiel hiss low through his teeth. His whole torso is littered with cuts, scrapes, and stitches. The edges of the stitches are puckered and rough, the skin sensitive as he strokes his thumb over them. Absurdly, his eyes start to burn. Heat prickles across his nose and Castiel blinks rapidly to clear his vision. He’s going to have _scars_. 

After that realization, not even the comforting humidity of the shower can alleviate his mood. The hotel’s washcloth is too rough for his skin and Castiel bites at his lower lip to keep any murmurs of pain securely contained. Stupid, to be concerned about something so vain as scars, but still. It’s his body, it’s going to be his body until he inevitably dies, and now he’s ruined it. 

Castiel shuts off the shower before the hot water runs out and Dean has yet another reason to berate him. The lack of heat source has him shivering and Castiel pats himself dry with a stiff towel as quickly as possible. His body screams in protest at the treatment, but he wants to be out of this room, away from the fogged mirror reflecting his failures, as quickly as possible. 

He just has to re-bandage and then he can...Castiel searches through the pile of clothes he left on the countertop. He pauses, and then searches again, though he already knows what he won’t find. He was so eager to escape into the bathroom that he forgot all of his first-aid supplies. He knows exactly where they are: in the outside pocket of his bag. 

Castiel sighs in frustration as he casts his gaze towards the ceiling. He charts each of the yellowing plaster stains and every crack in the ceiling like he might find the answers in them. Unsurprisingly, they keep their secrets to themselves. 

A loud rap on the door echoes throughout the small bathroom. Castiel jerks in surprise, which only serves to pull at his stitches. The door serves to muffle Dean’s words, but his irritation comes through loud and clear when he says, “Hey, you done in there or what? Come on Cas, my back teeth are floating.” 

Castiel has no idea what the colloquialism means, but judging by the hint of urgency in Dean’s voice, he guesses that he’s become impatient with Castiel’s dawdling. Another roll of his eyes to the ceiling provides no inspiration, while Dean bangs his fist on the door hard enough make the frame rattle. Judging from the force of his knocks if Castiel lingers any longer then Dean will simply kick down the door. 

When Castiel opens the door, Dean is directly behind it. He pushes past the accusatory face, clutching the towel to his bare shoulders as he escapes into the wider space of the room. The fabric of his pajama pants clings to his still damp legs and the chill of the air conditioner raises unhappy goosebumps on his arms as fat droplets of water fall from his hair to trickle down to the towel and past it, down his shoulders, back, and chest.

Dean doesn’t spare him a second look, though Castiel does hear him complaining as he closes the door. “What were you doing, carving the damn bathtub?” Thankfully, the thud of the door drowns out the rest of his tirade and leaves Castiel in an uncomfortable silence. 

Castiel glares towards the bathroom before he fishes out his medical supplies. His skin is still wet from the shower, but he has to work with what he has. By the time Dean finishes, he wants to be done, under the covers, and hopefully unconscious. The sound of belligerent pipes sputtering in the bathroom gives him some sense of relief. With Dean in the shower, he’ll at least have a few extra minutes. 

One try tells Castiel that he’ll need all the time he can get. The nurses at the hospital made the process look easy, but they always worked in highly trained pairs. As a solitary affair, bandaging becomes exponentially more difficult. Castiel discovers, after some trial and error, several pained grunts, and one pulled muscle, that there’s no way he can contort his arms to properly wrap the bandages around his wounds. 

He’s so intent upon his task that he doesn’t mark when the shower shuts off. He only notices the bathroom door opening when a wall of steam washes over his bare back. By then it’s too late. Dean walks into the room, skin flushed pink from the shower, already clad in a pair of jeans and a dark t-shirt. Castiel turns his eyes to the paisley design on the bedspread, swallowing around the sudden dryness in his throat. It’s not his place to look on Dean like that. 

With his eyes focused on the bedspread, Castiel has no clue what Dean might be doing. From the soft sounds of fabric shifting, Castiel guesses that he’s rearranging the contents of his bag. Castiel pushes his constant awareness of Dean to the back burner to return to his task, only to be slammed back into reality by the judgement in Dean’s voice. 

“The hell are you trying to do?”

Castiel swallows, and tries, with no success, to secure the wrapping around his chest. “The nurses said that I should try to keep the bandages on for at least another day. They were worried that I might pull the stitches.” He twists in a way that his body does not approve of and tries to swallow the grunt of pain. “It’s proving to be more difficult than I originally anticipated.” 

Silence follows, not that Castiel was expecting anything else. He finishes some semblance of bandaging and while he might not have accomplished the tight, pristine job of the nurses, he thinks that he’s done an acceptable job. His tingling hands fall to his sides and he’s satisfied for all of thirty seconds, before the bed dips behind him. 

“That looks like crap,” Dean says. He’s close enough that Castiel can feel the gust of his breath against the bare skin of his back. 

Castiel’s fists clench in his lap. “I haven’t had much practice.” 

Dean grunts. For a moment, Castiel thinks that’s the end of it. Perhaps Dean will leave him alone, so that he can lick his wounds. He’s not that lucky. He can’t help but flinch as Dean’s fingers start working at the mess of bandages around his chest. It takes everything in him not to squirm away from the touch. Every nerve ending in his body screams at the soft brush of contact and Castiel has a horrible suspicion that he might be shivering. 

“If you’re going to do this, then at least do it right.” Dean leans in close. The heat from Dean’s body radiates against Castiel’s skin. “Here. Hold this.” He loops one arm over Castiel’s shoulder, giving him the end of a bandage to hold against his chest. 

Dean makes short work of the job. His movements are practiced and surprisingly gentle, considering his gruff exterior and his previous anger. Castiel remains as stationary as possible, though every time Dean’s fingers brush against his skin, he can’t help but jump. He’s dizzy with the proximity and no matter how many breaths he takes in, it feels like he never gets enough oxygen. 

“You want to keep on hunting, you’re going to have to learn how to do a better job of this,” Dean mutters. 

Castiel freezes. For the first time today, Dean doesn’t sound angry. In fact, if Castiel had put an emotion to the voice, he would say that Dean sounds resigned. 

“I would just prefer not being wounded,” Castiel answers, after too long a pause. 

“Yeah?” The snap of irritation returns to Dean’s voice. “How’s that working for you so far?”

“Not well,” Castiel admits. 

Dean grunts as he urges Castiel’s arm to the side. His fingers brush over the skin above Castiel’s ribs and this time Castiel can’t hide the shudder which runs through his body. Heat rises to his cheeks and the back of his neck. No doubt it’s perfectly visible to Dean, but he makes no mention of it as tugs at one end of the bandage. 

Dean should be done. Castiel expects him to move away, so when Dean’s thumb lands on the erratic line of siren stitches, he thinks he can be forgiven for his half-aborted jump. The touch is unexpectedly tender, as Dean’s thumb strokes over the rough lines. A soft gasp begs to escape his mouth and Castiel ruthlessly digs his teeth into his lower lip to stop its progress. 

“Damn it Cas,” Dean says. His voice shakes through Castiel. “You can’t…” He trails off, and whatever else he might have said is lost in a long, defeated sigh. 

Dean is too close. He can’t think, not when Dean’s shirt brushes against the skin of his back, not when Dean’s arm is curved around his side, not when Dean’s thumb is on the soft skin of his belly. It only gets worse when Dean slumps forward and his forehead presses against the nape of Castiel’s neck. 

Castiel freezes. He hardly dares to breathe. Dean’s breath washes over the skin of his back, and Castiel’s skin tingles at the warmth. He’s surrounded, he’s drowning, and Dean is the one that’s holding his head under. Dean is the only thing keeping him grounded to reality. 

“You can’t keep doing this,” Dean says. The tip of his nose brushes against the space between Castiel’s shoulders and the fine hairs on the back of Castiel’s neck rises in response. “Cas, you…” Dean’s hand grips at Castiel’s side like he’s trying to convince himself of Castiel’s tangibility. 

Castiel tries to bite back the small cry of pain, but it still manages to worm its way out of his mouth. The response is immediate. Dean jerks his hand away like he’s been burned. Castiel is left bereft, anchorless in the vast ocean of a double bed. 

“I’m sorry.” Dean presses his forehead into Castiel’s skin, like if he tried hard enough he might just manage to crawl inside. His voice is a low whisper. “Cas, I can’t…” Dean makes a faint, unhappy noise. Castiel wants to turn around and comfort him, but he’s frozen in place. He daren’t move, fearful of losing this fragile, tentative moment. 

It ends anyway, with Dean muttering a muffled “Damn it,” against Cas’ skin. When he rips his head away, Cas feels the loss like a physical pain. It leaves him cold and so very alone. 

Dean retreats to his bed. It’s only three feet away, close enough to touch. It might as well be miles. Castiel dares to look at Dean through lowered lids. He’s so close, close enough that he can still smell the shampoo on him. He might as well be miles away, with the divide growing every second, until they’re on opposite sides of a canyon, with no way for Castiel to span the distance between them. 

“You should get some sleep,” Dean says. His focus remains, with laser-like intensity, on his bag. “We have a lot of driving to do tomorrow.” 

“Of course,” Castiel mutters. He slides beneath the covers. The sheets are stiff and scratchy and the comforter provides little warmth. The pillows under his head might as well be made of lead, for all the comfort they provide. Castiel stretches out on the mattress, already knowing that what little sleep he manages to snatch tonight won’t leave him feeling rested. 

He curls his hand over the pillowcase and rubs his nails over the rough weave. Words lodge in Castiel’s throat, solid as steel and immoveable as the earth. They’re habitual, words that humans say to give each other comfort without ever wondering about the deeper implications. 

They sit, rotten, on Castiel’s tongue until he manages to slip into something resembling sleep. 

_Goodnight Dean_. 

\---

_Blood and darkness fill his senses. The smell of sulfur in the air is thick in the air; the tang of copper coats his tongue and nostrils. Screams echo around him and beat at his fragile body until his cries join the cacophony. Heat singes at his wings and he tucks them in tight to his body. He has never been afraid, not once, not for thousands of years, but now, with hellfire licking at his grace, the cold tendrils of fear wrap around him. _

_He is here to save the Righteous Man, but first he must brave the horrors of Hell to reach him. From far away, he can hear the echoing cries of the rest of the garrison, the clash and snarls of battle. Demons snap as he passes, but he flares his wings in warning and soars on. He is not interested in hellspawn. He seeks bigger prey. _

_When he finds the Righteous Man, he is undeserving of the name. Castiel’s grace shrinks back in revulsion and horror at the sight in front of him. The Righteous Man holds a knife, dripping in blood and gore, while he stands in front of a partially flayed body. The body still twitches and wheezes, and the Righteous Man smiles in satisfaction. _

_Castiel’s wings snap out until they fill the room. Demanding. Intimidating. “Come with me,” he says, the wrath and hope of heaven ringing in his voice. _

_The Righteous Man turns to face him, bloody knife still in hand. His teeth gleam and his eyes flash black. “Come with you?” Faster than Castiel could fathom, he moves. _

_Black smoke curls around his grace and smothers it. He opens his mouth to scream. No sound comes, but the pain doesn’t stop. He tries to flap his wings and escape, but then a knife twists through the tendons and sinews, pinning him to the spot. He can’t move, can’t run, and all the while the pain…_

_The Righteous Man laughs as the knife twists. “I think that we could have a hell of a lot more fun down here, don’t you angel?” _

_The knife twists and Castiel_ screams--

With a muffled cry, Castiel wakes. He bolts upright, ignoring the warning pang from his stitches. His hands grope frantically at his chest, searching for the source of phantom pain. He finds nothing other than the neat bandages, their edges curling with his perspiration. Sweat beads along his forehead, his breaths escape him in ragged pants until he manages to calm his racing heart. 

A nightmare. Nothing more. 

He realizes belatedly that the lights are still on. The TV plays, its sound barely audible. Castiel glances over to the other bed, to find Dean looking back at him. 

He schools his expressions well, for a human, but Castiel can still read the worry behind his impassive face. Castiel tries to mimic Dean’s nonchalance, tries to hide the fear and disgust still pumping through his veins, as well as the ever present grief that comes from gaping chasm where his grace used to be. 

“Can’t sleep, huh?” 

Castiel turns his gaze towards the ceiling. “I find it an unfortunate requirement of humanity.” 

Dean laughs without mirth. “Yeah, same here.” He picks up a bottle of amber liquid and shakes it. “You need a nightcap?”

Castiel shakes his head, then realizes that Dean can’t see the gesture. “I find that drinking isn’t as pleasurable when you have the hangovers to deal with.” 

Dean chuckles. This time, the sound carries some warmth. “Yeah, welcome to humanity.” Despite the unwelcome reminder, Castiel doesn’t feel any resentment for the remark. “Well, if you’re not going to drink yourself stupid, there’s only one other thing to do if you can’t sleep.”

Castiel glances towards Dean. “Which is?”

Dean picks up the remote and turns up the volume on the television. “Watch crappy late-night marathons.” 

The show Dean has picked out is loud and obnoxious, with its canned laughter and cheap sets. Castiel doesn’t understand the plot or sympathize with any of the characters, but he settles into the pillows anyway. He only manages a fitful doze, but sometime in the middle of the night, the divide between him and Dean seems to lessen, just the smallest amount. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	11. money's just something you throw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home but not at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to animal death in this chapter, so once again, if that's not your thing, I'd read with caution.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The drive back to Vermont takes eleven hours, the majority of which are spent in silence. Thankfully, it’s not the sullen, tense hush of the previous day, but eleven hours of anything will wear on a person and Dean is less equipped than most to deal with the burden of silence. Castiel sure as hell isn’t Mr. Chatty. He will speak when asked a direct question and even then his answers are monosyllabic. It certainly doesn’t make for scintillating conversation. 

He’d been so close last night to just letting everything tumble out. Drunk on Cas, the nearness of him, the heat of him, he’d almost let slip his greatest secret, the one that he tucks close to his chest every time he sees Cas, the one that’s been resting in the hollows of his heart for years. 

_I can’t lose you. Not again_. 

The light and blood that poured out of Cas’ chest and eyes as the blade slid home. The sight of Cas’ wings, burned into the ground outside a tiny cabin in Oregon. The weight of Cas’ body as he lifted it onto the pyre. Dean can’t do that again. He won’t survive it. And to lose Cas now, when there’s finally a light at the end of the tunnel, when he finally thought that he’d managed to bid farewell to the ugliness and horror and pain...No. There are some things that are beyond thought, beyond tolerance. 

The previous night replays itself in an endless loop of potential and failure. The feel of Cas’ bare skin against his fingers, the scent of cheap soap and shampoo. It was so delicate, breathe on it and it would shatter. And then there was Cas’ chest, sewn together like some Frankenstein monster. The uneven line of stitches underneath his thumb, so different from the neat, standard lines done by the hospital. The twitch and jerk of Cas’ skin, the ragged breaths drawn from his chest. Impossible not to watch him, impossible not to care about him. 

It took every shred of willpower Dean possessed to pull away, but he’d managed. The last thing that Cas wanted was him. He’d made that perfectly clear. 

Several hours into the drive, Dean offers, “You can pick your own bedroom. In the house, I mean. Your bedroom. You can choose.” Cas slowly turns his head to look at him. One fingertip taps his chin. “They all need a bit of work, but they’ve got furniture. You can pick, once we get there.” 

A shadow of what might be a smile crosses Cas’ face. “You’re very proud of this house, aren’t you?”

Dean flushes and tries to duck his chin inside his flannel. The pride in Cas’ voice makes something glow inside him. “It’s alright I guess. I really haven’t done much.” 

“I somehow doubt that’s the case.” Castiel strokes over the back of his own hand, before he returns his stare back to the side of the road. “You’ve told me what you’ve done to the house so far.”

“Yeah.” Dean taps against the steering wheel. Before he can think twice, the words come tumbling out. “I’m really glad that you’re going to get to see it.” He takes his eyes away from the road to look over at Cas. “Seriously Cas. I’m really glad that you’re here.” 

The look on Cas’ face is as incomprehensible as the rest of him. If Dean were feeling hopeful then he would say that it’s equal parts pleased and surprised, but he doesn’t want to read into anything. It’s enough for him that Cas’ resentful attitude seems to have vanished with the morning sun. 

He’s not optimistic enough to think that it won’t return, but he enjoys the respite for the time being. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The miles tick away on their drive to Vermont. Castiel counts them by subtracting from the green highway signs and ignores the swirling pit of anxiety seething in his belly. The smaller the numbers get on his countdown, the more desperate the need to _escaperunfleerunrunrun_ grows, until he can barely breathe around the lump in his throat. 

It’s stupid. It’s not like Dean would go to all the trouble of driving to Indiana and bringing him back just to reject him in the home stretch. Obviously, Dean is in for the semi-long haul. 

_But for how long?_ whispers the traitorous part of Castiel’s brain. It’s insidious, this voice that creeps along through his half-dozing thoughts and turns everything that was good upside down. It slithers inside every fond memory and every hope. Every bit of him twists and turns and curves until Castiel daren’t trust his instincts. 

He knows what he wants. Just a few days and his resolve crumbles like a poorly constructed house of cards. He wants to stay with Dean. He doesn’t want to return to the cold comforts of the road. He doesn’t want to spend any more lonely nights in anonymous motels, spend his free time crushed amongst bodies in the latest dive bar. He wants to return to a room every day and have it be his. He wants to feel the comfort of the concept of family surrounding him. He wants to see the house of which Dean is so proud of, wants to share in the pride that comes from creation. 

He can’t do any of that if Dean plans on telling him to leave. He’s learned, through several painful lessons, that hope hurts the worst when it’s ripped away. So he won’t allow himself to hope. He won’t treat this home like it’s something permanent. He’ll rest here, easy as a bubble on the surface, and that way, when Dean asks him to leave, it won’t hurt nearly as badly as it could. 

\---

One look and Castiel understands. The house is lovely. Its bones are sturdy and elegant, and the small details serve to make the house more unique. If he squints, he gets an idea of what the house might look like in the future. It’s a charming picture, one made all the more poignant by the soft glow of pride in Dean’s face. 

The tour begins as Dean walks him up the front steps and through the first floor, talking all the while. He points out repairs that he’s made, while listing improvements that still need to be completed. The kitchen, Dean says with a rueful look, is only halfway done. His budget only stretches so far and appliances are expensive, especially the ones that he wants. As Dean rambles on about dual baker’s ovens and French door refrigerators, Castiel watches him. An indulgent warmth spreads in his chest at watching Dean hip-deep in his element. It’s endearing, watching his hands take on wide gestures as he babbles about something else other than the best brand of machetes or the best reloading tactic. 

Dean’s good mood continues as they walk up the stairs, which, as Dean informs him, still need to be sanded and repainted. Castiel takes his word for it. His knowledge of home improvements is vague at best and mostly based on shows that have peppy background music and unrealistic budgets. 

The bedrooms which Dean shows him all have their unique attributes. One has a window seat, while another has a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Another has a small sitting area, while another boasts an exemplary view of the forest just outside the house. Castiel gives each room his honest consideration, weighing the pros and cons carefully. At the end of it, he still doesn’t have a room he feels comfortable calling his own. While he can appreciate all the rooms, none of them feel right. 

“There’s always the third floor,” Dean says. The brightness of his smile dims somewhat as they climb another flight of stairs. Castiel’s breath comes shorter as they climb, but he tries to hide it from Dean the best he can. On this floor, the rooms are smaller, but they seem cozier. Castiel glances in at one and then two. At the third bedroom, he pauses, before he enters. 

Compared to the massive bedrooms on the second floor, this room is positively tiny. It’s large enough for a bed, a chair, and a dresser, but Castiel couldn’t care less. He’s drawn to the windows spanning the length of one wall. They’re west-facing, which means that he won’t be woken every morning by the sun glaring in his face. The glass is warm underneath his touch and Castiel traces absent Enochian lettering over it as he stares out at the view. 

The mountains are soft, rolling things in the distance. Closer to the house, Castiel sees the trees and yard. He thinks that he can even spy a pond within walking distance. It’s a beautiful sight, one that he wouldn’t mind seeing day after day. 

For the first time in months, Castiel feels a spark of excitement in his belly. He turns back towards Dean, question on the tip of his tongue. _Would it be all right if this room were mine_\--but it disintegrates in the face of Dean. 

Dean, who is more radiant than any sunset could ever be. Dean, whose soft smile provides enough light to power a solar panel. He’s beautiful. Castiel has always thought so, and as his eyes feast upon the sight of him, his belief is reaffirmed. 

Times like these, he feels the loss of his grace acutely. He used to be able to see Dean’s soul glowing just underneath the surface, lighting him up from the inside out. It was a glorious sight, and while he has his memories, they’re never as good as the genuine article. 

“Do you like it?” 

“It’s a stunning view,” Castiel replies to Dean’s hesitant question. His eyes are drawn back to the window and to the wilderness waiting outside. The sight makes his heart ache--half with pleasure, half with a wild pain he can’t hope to understand. 

“Yeah. Yeah it is.” Dean smiles and jerks his thumb to the left. “My room is next door. I’ve got the same view. Honestly, I’d thought about knocking the wall out and combining the two, but I guess that’s not going to happen, huh?”

Castiel’s previous excitement withers as quickly as it blossomed. “I can take another room if you already had plans for this one.” He shoulders his bag, wincing under the sudden weight. He tries to make his way towards the door, only to find his way blocked by Dean. 

“Cas, what the hell? You want the room, take the room.” 

“It’s fine.” Castiel tries to slide around Dean, but Dean has the distinct advantage of having less stitches than Castiel. Unhampered by a healing body, his movements are smooth and quick. It was foolish for Castiel to think that he could outmaneuver Dean. “I’ll pick another room and it’ll be fine.” 

“Cas. Stop.” Dean’s hand wraps around Castiel’s upper arm, as solid as a pair of handcuffs. Its pressure keeps him immobile, but in a last gesture of defiance, Castiel refuses to meet Dean’s eyes. “You want the room, you take the room.” This close, Castiel hears the click of Dean’s swallow and the awkward shuffle of his boots. “I want...I want you to be able to choose. I want…” Dean sighs and his grip loosens. “I just want you to be happy.” 

Somehow, Castiel thinks that they’ve moved past the topic of the room. He’s certainly not referring to a piece of real estate when he says, “I’ve taken so much already. I don’t want to take anything else.”

Even though he’s not looking at Dean, Castiel still feels the eye-roll. “Cas, it’s a damn room, not the Holy Grail. Look, it was just an idea. It doesn’t matter, all right?” Castiel dares to glance at Dean. He catches a flash of something, but it’s gone before he can even hope to put a name to it. “Whatever you want. Please.” To watch the smile spreading across Dean’s face is to watch the sun rise, to feel the barren earth yielding to the warmth of spring. “It’ll be nice having you right next door. Plus, bonus, there’s a bathroom right across the hall and giants need not apply.” 

Castiel remembers the talk that he had with Dean, before the djinn hunt, back when everything seemed so simple. They’d joked about the minor inconveniences of living with other people, mainly about Sam’s inability to clean up after himself. Even though their lives had been tangled then, it’d seemed simple. He would see Dean and the rest of the future was ephemeral and unimportant. Now, with the threads of their lives tangled beyond all possibility of ever unraveling, Castiel sees the vague outline of a future emerging from the uncertain mists. 

He wants to stay. God, but he wants to stay. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Dean thought that when they got to Vermont, when they settled into the house, everything would be better. 

It isn’t. 

Outside of direct questions, Castiel doesn’t speak. He picks at the food in front of him as he cuts his food into tiny pieces before he begrudgingly shoves a few tiny bites into his mouth. He doesn’t offer any explanations about his non-existent appetite, or his sudden lack of interest in basic human hygiene, or why Dean can hear him pacing around the room at ungodly hours of the night. 

The reason for the sleepless nights isn’t that hard for Dean to determine: even through the walls he can hear the soft sounds of nightmares. They’re not some of the screaming horrors that plague him, but judging from the sounds Cas makes, they sound nasty enough. Dean listens to the whimpers and snuffles and clenches his fist in the blankets as he wonders whether or not he should interrupt. Every night he decides against it, and he falls asleep with the churning nausea that only guilt provides. 

The two of them move through the house like ghosts. If they exchange more than ten complete sentences throughout the day, then Dean feels like they were abnormally chatty. He could handle the lack of communication if Cas could stand to be in the same room as him, but it seems like every time he enters a room, Cas is just leaving. He catches swift glimpses: the tail of a shirt whipping around the corner, an upturned paperback book abandoned on the chair. 

He knows that he shouldn’t be angry at Cas for going against his expectations, but dammit, this isn’t right. Cas coming here, to the place that Dean is trying to turn into a home, should have been different, should have been better, should have been the two of them walking across the threshold with a damn soundtrack behind them, not...whatever the hell this is. 

He meant it, when he said that he just wants Castiel to be happy. Unfortunately, that outcome slips further and further away with every day that passes. Castiel skulks around the house like an unusually solid ghost, while Dean runs himself ragged trying to find anything that would make even the faintest hint of joy appear on Cas’ face. 

He finds it accidentally one afternoon while working in the yard. 

He’s walking through the yard and scoping out locations where he could put a firepit, maybe a gazebo. The pie-in-the-sky notion of a giant barbeque still persists in the back of Dean’s mind, even with Cas lurking around the house like a woebegone waif. The flat spot just off the back of the house looks like it might be a good spot for a pit--if he put concrete down, he could even create a seating area. Dean kneels to examine the ground and that’s when he spots the small heap of dried grass and fluff in the otherwise pristine lawn. 

If it hadn’t been for Bobby’s hunting lessons when he was younger, then he might not have recognized it. But Bobby had been diligent in hammering those lessons into his and Sam’s head, alongside everything else he was trying to teach them. Dean immediately knows what the dried grass signifies. Even so, he walks over just to be sure. He carefully picks up the grass to reveal a small nest with four baby rabbits nestled together. 

He’d deny it to his dying day, but Dean’s breath actually hitches at the sight. Their tiny ears rest almost flat against their heads and all four bodies could fit easily in the palm of his hand. As Dean watches, one of the babies opens their eyes. His own face is reflected in the shiny black pupil as the kit regards him steadily. Dean’s chest constricts and he carefully covers the nest back up with the same pile of grass. 

“Is everything all right?” 

Cas’ voice, exhibiting some hint of emotion and lasting longer for the time that it takes to compose a monosyllabic response, startles Dean enough that he jumps. He turns around to find Cas standing barefoot on the veranda. In his hands is a cup of coffee, one of the few things that seems to give Cas any sort of pleasure. 

Dean’s heart does its little jump, the same as it always does whenever he sees Cas. This time though, there’s an extra kick to it. Cas’ face, for once, shows a hint of his old self--the curiosity and concern, the flicker and spark which compelled Dean closer, a moth to a light. Cas cranes his head to get a better view, but when that doesn’t work, he comes down the steps and into the yard. 

Dean’s stomach does somersaults as Cas squats next to him. No doubt that Cas has looked better: his hair is a tangled mess, he hasn’t bothered shaving in a few days, and Dean knows that he’s been wearing the same wrinkled shirt going on at least three days. But the look of blatant interest on his face is worth even the faint whiff of unwashed clothing. 

“Look what I found.” Once more, Dean peels away the covering of grass and fluff to reveal the litter of rabbits underneath. 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185495911@N02/49060561236/in/datetaken/)

Even though the kits are just as entrancing as before, Cas is infinitely more alluring. Dean watches the way that surprise makes his face soft and delights in how his mouth falls open. A satisfied hum rumbles in the back of his throat and his hand even twitches, like he wants to reach out but manages to stop himself just in time. 

“Those are...very pleasing,” Cas finally says. The glow of his face eclipses the nonchalance of his words. 

“Yeah?” Dean can’t help grinning at Cas. “These guys are probably about two weeks old, maybe a little less. Another four or five weeks and they’ll be grown up and ready to leave the nest.” 

Cas’ face falls and Dean wants to kick himself for being the reason behind it. “But after that we’ll probably have another litter in just another few weeks.” Cas doesn’t look mollified, and Dean takes the risk of rocking his shoulder into Cas’. Cas sways under the contact and Dean thrills at the warmth blossoming along his side. “Come on Cas, haven’t you ever heard the expression going at it like rabbits?” Cas gifts him with a blank look, one he must have pulled out from his angelic days, that says _I know very well what you are trying to do but I am above such foolish things_. Eventually though, Cas lets out a begrudging half-smile and Dean feels like he could hang the moon over the minute quirk of his lips. 

After that, Cas visits the nest at least twice a day. Dean usually catches him making the first trip in the morning, when the dew still clings to the grass blades and there’s a distinct nip in the air. Cas doesn’t seem to mind as he walks barefoot into the yard, the hem and knees of his pants sprouting damp patches as he kneels in the grass. Cas usually spends at least five minutes by the nest. If he angles himself correctly, then Dean can see Cas’ lips moving as he talks to the kits. He never comes close enough to determine the nature of the conversation. 

Best of all, after he returns from his morning visit, Cas will accept a mug of coffee from Dean and maybe even some breakfast. They’ll sit at the table, eat together, and exchange halting small talk if Cas’ morning coffee has managed to kick in. Every morning that he manages to get some light conversation out of Cas, Dean’s stomach performs a happy little squirm. He’d be almost embarrassed by it, if it didn’t feel so damn good. 

Dean settles into the new routine with gusto. Cas even puts in a few appearances for lunch and makes a few half-assed attempts to help Dean with repairs. He’s kind of crap at it and usually wanders off after one or two tries, but it’s a hell of a lot more than Dean was getting a week and a half ago. His plans for the house don’t seem so far-fetched anymore and for the first time since Cas woke up in the hospital, Dean releases his stranglehold over his dreams. 

It all comes crashing down one Wednesday morning. 

Dean wakes early, as has become his habit. He’s not wild about waking when the sun is just rising over the horizon, but if he wants to catch Cas’ morning trip, then that’s the sacrifice that he has to make. He wanders down the stairs, almost tripping over his own feet as he tries to stifle a yawn. Acting on auto-pilot, he starts the coffee maker, then slides open the glass door and steps out onto the porch. The morning chill bites harder than usual and Dean shivers as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his sweats. 

Automatically, involuntarily, his eyes seek out Castiel. He finds him quickly enough, but there’s no comfort in the finding. Cas’ posture is all wrong, his shoulders curled in defensively, his hands grabbing at the blades of grass in front of him like he’s searching for an anchor. It only takes Dean a moment to take in the churned earth, the scattered blades of grass, the small tufts of fur, and, worst of all, the small smears of blood on the damp grass. 

Oh no. No. 

On numb legs, Dean travels into the yard. He barely notices the wetness spreading along his pants and feet as he walks to where Cas kneels. Cas doesn’t acknowledge his presence, not even when Dean reaches out and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

Here in the quasi-wilderness, there’s dozens of creatures that could have gotten to the kits. Coyotes, foxes, the odd feral cat...It’s stupid to mourn one litter of rabbits, but Dean thinks about his reflection in that one eye and his heart clenches. 

“Cas,” he finally says, when the dew sinks into his skin and the chill takes up permanent residence in the tips of his fingers. His brain is empty and he can’t offer any comfort other than hollow words. “Cas, I’m sorry man.” 

Cas’ chest heaves once, then twice. He holds the last inhale before letting it go in a long, shuddering sigh. With a swift, convulsive movement, he shrugs Dean’s hand off his shoulders. It falls to his side, heavy and useless, just like the rest of him. The rejection stings, but worse is the look on Cas’ face when he turns to look at him. All the previous light, the curiosity, the interest and joy is gone. Left in their place is the depressing bleakness of before, tinted with bitterness and a hint of desperation. 

Cas stands. It takes him a long time, and when he’s finally upright, there’s still a hunched, hunted look to his shoulders. He looks one last time at the remnants of the nest, before he turns and starts the walk back to the house. 

Dean watches him go. What else can he do? Cas doesn’t want his help, and even if he did, Dean has no idea what he would do. How do you help someone accept the inevitable despair of mortality? 

The sliding glass door closes with a definitive thump. As soon as it does, Cas is hidden from him by the glare of the morning sun hitting the glass, but it doesn’t matter. Dean already knows where Cas is headed: back up to his room to curl in the safety of his bed. It’ll be a miracle if he sees Cas again today. 

Dean kneels down and takes a bit of fluff between his fingertips. It’s whisper soft and achingly delicate. A sharp pain rockets through his body as he thinks of those tiny lives, stolen by nothing more than the random, cruel turn of fate and the one, inescapable rule: everything that lives must eventually die. 

He pulls out the blades of grass that have even the slightest spot of copper red on them. He scatters handfuls around him and then runs his hands over the debris of the nest, scattering it as far as his arms can reach. He thinks about the kits and the fragility of their tiny bodies. He thinks about the wonder on Cas’ face and the dawning of hope in his own chest. He thinks about humanity wrapping around Cas’ neck like a noose. 

_We need a break_, he thinks, glancing up into the lightening sky as he searches for a deity that was never really there. _We just need a goddamn break_. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	12. a hand full of rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before you can go up you have to hit rock bottom.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

For the rest of the day, Dean moves silently through the house. He ventures upstairs once to find Cas’ door resolutely closed against the world. Dean rests his hand on the solid wood, cool to his touch. No sounds leak through the door, even when Dean puts his ear to the wood. Every good intention he ever possessed tells him to knock on the door, but Dean forces himself to walk away, stepping over the creaky floorboards so that he can hide every sign of his presence. He slinks back down the stairs and tries to ignore how much it feels like running away. 

Dean forces himself to complete all of his planned chores. He removes and sands the cabinet doors. He’s been debating between several different shades of varnish for the kitchen cabinets--light, medium, or dark.

(Dean won’t tell Sam just how much of his spare time has been taken up with debating the ramifications of light cabinets versus a dark countertop, or light cabinets and light flooring. He doesn’t want the kitchen to be too dark, but at the same time he doesn’t want to wash it out. Plus, light tiles will show the dirt more, and he’s never been fond of light cabinets. Yeah, if Sam ever discovered the amount of hours Dean’s spent watching HGTV for their opinions...Well, Sam just won’t find out.)

The task takes him twice as long as it should. Dean keeps half an ear cocked up the stairs for any hint of life, but none is forthcoming. So he sands, and he scrapes his knuckles more than once and curses under his breath until he runs out of obscenities. After he finishes, he props the doors against the wall. He’ll figure out the varnish tomorrow. Today, he’s in no shape for making a decision much more long-lasting than whether he’ll spend his evening with Jack Daniels or his good friend Jim Beam. 

When he peers inside the unofficial liquor cabinet, Dean gets his second nasty surprise of the day. The shelves are empty, with only the barely discernible rings to even show that there were bottles there to begin with. Dean looks up towards the ceiling, his stomach sinking. 

He takes the stairs two at a time. He doesn’t care about noise. Let Cas know that he’s coming. Let Cas know that he’s pissed. He understands being depressed, and he understands wanting to climb inside a bottle to escape your misery. God, does he understand that, but he’s just Dean Winchester, who never managed to graduate high school, let alone turn his life into something meaningful. Cas is...Cas is better than Dean ever was, or at least he should be. 

Cas’ door is still shut, but that barrier won’t keep Dean out for long. He raps on the solid wood, so hard that his knuckles sting from the impact. “Cas? Open up.” He’s giving the illusion of politeness, but he’s more than prepared to knock down the stupid door, repairs be damned. “Cas!”

A faint rustle sounds from behind the door. The sound is accompanied by a slurred, “Go away.” 

Dean likes to think that he keeps a reasonable leash on his temper. He doesn’t fly off the handle and he certainly doesn’t go down the John Winchester route at his friends and family. He’s in his early forties. It’s not becoming for a man of his age to fly into a rage. 

All of his efforts at self-control disappear at Cas’ order for him to go away. Black anger bubbles in his gut as he wrenches at the door handle. Much to his surprise, Cas either forgot or didn’t bother to lock it. Dean bursts into the room. 

He hasn’t been here since Cas took up residence. Any hope that he had of Cas making a home for himself evaporates as he takes in the barren shelves and blank walls. Even the closet is empty. Cas’ duffel bag sits on the chair, several shirts and jeans spilling out from its depths. That, and the rumpled sheets, are the only signs of life in the room, apart from the Cas-shaped lump hunkered underneath the window. 

If Dean had thought that the sight of Cas would be enough to temper his anger, he’d be wrong. All it does is inflame his ire even more. Cas managed to make out with three bottles of liquor, somehow escaping Dean’s attention. All three are scattered around Cas, in varying degrees of emptiness. Cas himself is still dressed in the same clothes as he was this morning, dirt stains clearly visible on the knees of his jeans. The odor of alcohol wafting off him hits Dean like a slap from a distillery. 

Cas looks up through bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes. He looks older now, the lines on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes and mouth more pronounced. He gropes sightlessly for a bottle, fingers finally seizing it after a few futile tries. 

“Dean.” If there was any combativeness in Cas’ tone, it’s disappeared and been replaced with resignation. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean storms forward and yanks all three bottles away from Cas. He tosses them onto the mattress, where they clink together. 

Cas blinks at the loss, but doesn’t make a move to take back his purloined liquor. He looks up at Dean, something fragile and lost flickering in his expression, before it’s replaced with a chilling apathy. “I’m drinking,” Cas answers, a hint of recalcitrance in his voice. “I would have thought that would have been obvious.” 

Dean grits his teeth to bite back the thousand and one curses all jumping on the tip of his tongue. “I can see that,” he answers. He thinks that he mostly wins the battle to keep his voice steady. “Any reason why you decided to drink the house’s whole supply in eight hours?”

Cas’ mouth sets in a stubborn frown. He runs his fingers through his hair, only to have his fringe flop limply back onto his forehead. “Is that not what you do?” No doubt Cas meant the question to sound belligerent, but to Dean’s ears, he just sounds lost. “When you’re upset, aren’t you supposed to turn to alcohol? Is that not the proper human behavior?”

The question hits with the same force as a two by four. Dean’s knees shiver with the impact, and it seems like the best and easiest solution for him to sink down until he’s sitting on the floor across from Cas. His regrets pile up in his throat until he wants to vomit them out. How many times did Cas watch him get piss-drunk after a bad hunt, or hell, just a bad day? 

The memory of the alternate world rears its ugly head once more. Cas, stoned out of his mind, grinning at the end of the world, Cas, dying in that hellish alternate world. Light pouring out of Cas’ eyes and mouth while Lucifer laughed behind him. Cas, bleeding out on the table, his heart stuttered to a stop. 

It hits Dean then, as he sits on the scuffed hardwood floor. By inching increments, by seconds, by missed meals, and lost sleep, he’s losing Cas. 

“No Cas.” He’s not angry anymore, just very, very sad. “It’s not.”

Cas tilts his head as he looks at Dean with the stilted deliberation of the truly drunk. “I don’t…” One hand rubs at his chest, wrinkling his flannel shirt. Was it always that big on him? How much weight has Cas lost underneath Dean’s watch? “I can’t stop any of it, and I thought…” His eyes flick up to the mattress. “I just wanted it to stop.” 

Dean wants to take his past self and kick him in the nads for ever giving Cas the idea that alcoholism was an appropriate coping mechanism. The glassy sheen in Cas’ eyes, the sweat beading along his hairline, the hopeless cant of his head--Dean wants to be sick. 

“I know Cas. Believe me, I know, but this ain’t the way, all right?” Dean keeps his voice gentle as he reaches out. 

For a moment, he allows himself to think that this might all end well. He allows himself to dream that Cas might stretch out to meet him halfway, that together they might make it through this. He lives in that world for one brilliant second, before reality slams into him. 

Cas turns away from his hand just before it would have touched his shoulder. He angles his body away from Dean, putting himself as far away from him as he can feasibly be. He looks towards the ceiling over Dean’s shoulder, his jaw set and stubborn. It’s the clearest rejection Cas could have given him. 

“I don’t belong here.” The words come out in a soft slur and at first Dean doesn’t understand them. It takes a moment before the comprehension sets in and with it, the cold fingers of fear. “I thought that I could, but I can’t...I don’t belong here.” 

Dean rocks back on his heels. He couldn’t be more stung than if Cas had reached out and struck him. After everything that he’s done, everything that they’ve been through...Cas doesn’t think that he belongs? What else does Cas want? And why, why, _why_, for the love of everything good, has Dean never been enough for him?

“Well tough.” Spurred by hurt, Dean’s irritation returns with a vengeance. There are several dozen targets that he could set it loose on, but the easiest and most convenient is slumped directly in front of him. “You don’t belong here, fine. Whatever the fuck that means. You’re still stuck here because your dumb ass doesn’t know enough to wait for back-up on a damn hunt.” 

Cas’ eyes narrow into slits and if he still had his grace, then a good smiting would be in Dean’s immediate future. It’s not the look that he wanted, but it’s more reaction than Dean’s gotten in weeks, so he keeps prodding. It’s possible that he’s drunk too--drunk on his anger and resentment, wallowing in the sensations until it bubbles over in a vicious torrent directed right at Cas. 

“How come it is that you never listen to me, huh Cas?” Cas’ eyes are fixed on the ground in front of him as he traces an abstract design along the whorls of the hardwood. “I tell you not to go hunting alone and you do the exact opposite? I ask you, I beg you not to leave, and then you’re out the door before the words are out of my mouth!” Dean clamps his jaw shut before anything else can escape, but the damage is done. Cas’ eyes have gone hard and Dean can tell that if there were ever a chance for a meaningful conversation, that moment has long since passed. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Cas mutters. With surprising dexterity, he pushes to his feet. “None of it...I can’t.” He starts off towards the door with unsteady steps. “I can’t be here.” 

Dean’s frozen until Cas says those last words. Then he’s on his feet, propelled forward by a frantic urgency. It’s laughably easy to get in front of Cas--a toddler could outrun his stumbling steps, but Cas fights him when Dean tries to stop him, if his uncoordinated pushes and flails could be considered fighting. To a bystander, hell, to a not furious Dean, it might even be funny. As it is, Cas’ struggles only serve to piss him off all the more. 

“Dammit Cas, stop it!” Dean snaps. He snatches Cas’ wrists and holds them firmly in one hand while the other grabs the neckline of Cas’ shirt. He gives Cas one hard shake, enough to rattle him and stop his ineffectual struggles. “All right? That’s enough!” 

“Dean, I’m sorry.” Cas sags, all the fight gone out of him. It’s all Dean can do to compensate for the sudden shift in weight. He tries not to trip over Cas’ legs as he staggers over towards the bed. Cas, little more than a pile of loose, flopping limbs, offers no help as Dean hefts him up onto the mattress. The bottles clink together and Cas mindlessly reaches for them, until Dean leans forward and pulls them away. He ignores Cas’ unhappy whine, though the sound pulls at the weak part of him that would burn the world to see those that he loves happy. 

“I’m sorry.” Cas’ eyes are closed and Dean doesn’t know that he’s fully conscious as he mumbles the words. “Dean, I’m sorry. I don’t...I just want...I’m sorry.” His voice disintegrates into unintelligible slurs, but apologies seem to make up the bulk of it. If Dean had a dollar for every time Cas apologized to him, then he wouldn’t need to worry about credit card scams or hustling pool ever again. 

“Yeah, I know you’re sorry.” Dean hauls Cas’ legs up onto the bed, straightening him out. His head is nowhere near the pillows, but Cas is a pretty solid guy and pretty fucking difficult to move when he’s doing his best impersonation of dead weight. “You’re always fucking sorry.” 

“I don’t deserve...I just want…” Cas’ head lolls in Dean’s direction. His face is screwed up in an expression that looks a lot like pain. Dean’s assumption is only confirmed when Cas’ eyes shoot open. “I don’t feel good,” he says, clearer than he’s said anything else in the night. 

Dean recognizes that expression from countless nights of drinking. He manages to get a wastebasket under Cas’ mouth just in time for Cas to vomit up the bulk of three bottles of liquor. Dean winces in sympathy--it’s a lot for anyone to heave up, let alone an angel who never dreamed of having to deal with the dry heaves. 

“It’s ok,” Dean says. His anger still flickers in his chest, but it’s difficult to be furious when the object of your ire is currently busy dumping the contents of his stomach into a trashcan. “Let it all out Cas. You’re ok.” 

“I don’t want to be like this,” Cas says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t...I want to be…” He looks at Dean imploringly, but Dean has no answers. 

“I know,” Dean says, even though he doesn’t. When it comes to Cas, he doesn’t know a damn thing.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

There’s a drill digging straight into his brain. Even after Castiel wrenches his eyelids open and discovers the distinct lack of drill, the sharp pain doesn’t vanish. In fact, it only increases. He tries to squint his eyes shut against the bright agony throbbing in his skull, but it’s too late. The pain has taken hold and refuses to be evicted.

After a moment’s deliberation, Castiel manages to lick at his parched lips with a dry tongue. His mouth is dry and fuzzy and no matter how many times he swallows, he can’t seem to manufacture any saliva. His stomach churns and Castiel swallows hard as he tries to force down the nausea. 

From his memory of Dean’s complaints, Castiel knows that he’s moved past intoxication and into what Dean calls a hangover. He’s never had the pleasure himself, and upon experiencing the head-splitting pain and writhing stomach contractions, he can’t say that he wishes to experience another. If he thought that humanity was miserable before, this only serves to solidify his opinion. 

After several long minutes, which Castiel spends wishing that he were dead or at least unconscious, he finally pushes himself into a sitting position. His head only hurts worse for the change, and Castiel presses his fingertips into his temples in a futile attempt to at least temper some of the throbbing agony. It doesn’t help. 

His memories are fuzzy at best. He remembers sliding Dean’s liquor bottles out of the cabinet, taking them back up to his room, and downing as much as he could. In the back of his mind he’d known that it was a bad idea, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

The simple act of living had just seemed so pointless. He couldn’t even keep a handful of rodents alive, much less humanity, much less Dean. Stupid to get so attached to something so ephemeral. Stupid to get attached to humanity. But Castiel had gotten attached, had grown to love the minutes he spent watching those tiny lives, and all for what? To see them die? 

He’d seen Dean reach for the bottle more times than he could count after a bad hunt. Perhaps there was some logic in his decision. After trying it, Castiel can say, with gusto, that there is no logic in this decision, only pain. 

It’s a long time before Castiel gathers the strength to swing his legs out of bed and walk out of the room. Each step takes an eternity and immeasurable force of will to complete. Finally, he’s across the room and creeping out into the hallway. The bathroom is his ultimate goal and when he reaches it, he closes the door and slides the lock home with a sense of relief. 

So far, sharing a bathroom hasn’t been an issue between himself and Dean. They manage to move through each other’s lives with the minimal amount of disturbance. Perhaps that’s their problem, Castiel thinks as he looks into the mirror. 

He winces at his reflection. He hadn’t expected it to be a particularly pleasant sight, but he wasn’t ready for this. His skin is sallow and pasty and covered with a sheen of sweat. His hair hangs in a greasy mess over his forehead and his cheeks are dark with two days worth of stubble. Humans require so much upkeep and Castiel just...can’t.

The confessions of last night crash into his skull. When he thinks about the words that stuttered and caught against the cage of his teeth, shame licks hot along the back of Castiel’s neck. _I don’t belong here. I can’t stay here. I just want...I just want to feel like I belong. I just want a place to call home_. 

He doesn’t belong here. That much has been made clear to him. Castiel has tried to regain the easy camaraderie he once shared with Dean, but something stands between them. He can’t linger in a place where he’s so obviously unwanted, kept stationary by nothing more than Dean’s mistaken regard for a former ally. 

He’d hoped...For years, he’s listened to Dean exhort the values of family, to the point where he almost started to believe them. He’d hoped, even after he no longer possessed the abilities to help, that Dean’s mantra would hold true, but Castiel doubts. The sickly memories from the djinn dream lick at the corners of his mind--_There’s no reason that I would keep you around if you weren’t useful_. 

Castiel splashes water into his face. It does nothing to help either his stomach or his head, but it does shock his body into something resembling life. He uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the excess dampness before he carefully rolls his shoulders. He should bathe. He’s found that there’s restorative power in a long, warm, shower, and he could sorely use some of that at the moment. He’s just about to start the process of undressing when a faint noise catches his attention. 

It’s muffled, but years of watching and listening have made him hyper-aware of Dean’s distress. He listens for just a few moments before he leaves the bathroom. All of his minor pains are forgotten as he pads down the hallway, drawn in by the sounds of Dean’s discomfort. 

He pauses at the closed door. Dean is protective of his privacy, always has been. Even in the bunker, he disliked having either Sam or Castiel intrude upon his bedroom without explicit invitation. And when Castiel was an angel, Dean was always either uncomfortable or irritable when Castiel watched over his sleep. Still, Castiel opens the door slowly enough to avoid any awkward creaks and slides into Dean’s room. 

In direct contrast to Castiel, Dean has obviously made his mark on this room. He has a bookshelf lined with trinkets and well-thumbed paperbacks, as well as several movies. The TV at the opposite end of his room shows signs of use, as does the armchair close by his bed. The lamp on Dean’s bedside table casts a soft, gentle glow over the large bed in the center. It makes everything look vaguely dream-like and serves to calm the rapid beat of Castiel’s heart. Dean’s even put pictures up around the room. Castiel’s heart expands to see Sam’s and Jack’s faces smiling at him, and it clenches when other faces peer at him--Mary Winchester, Bobby Singer, Charlie Bradbury and....himself. He’s not smiling in any of the pictures, but he’s still there, placed amongst the rest of Dean’s loved ones. 

He was never aware of being photographed. It’s a sad remark on his effectiveness both as an angel and as a human. Castiel knows that he should feel some sense of violation for having his picture taken without his consent, but instead of anger, all he feels is a steady, warm glow in the pit of his belly. To be placed up here, along with the rest of Dean’s family…

“Cas?”

Castiel startles at the sound of his name and whirls around to face Dean. He’s ready to apologize for his intrusion, but he needn’t have worried. Dean’s eyes are still closed, though, from the way that his fingers grip the edge of his sheets, the slumber he’s caught in is not a restful one. 

Castiel steps closer to the bed and frowns. A quick glance at the alarm clock tells him that it’s just past four in the morning. Dean’s sleep should be deep and absolute, so why is he calling out? The answer becomes clear when he steps closer to the bed and his toe knocks against an empty glass bottle. A closer inspection reveals three empty bottles, the corpses of Castiel’s earlier binge. It seems that Dean finished what Castiel could not. So much for Dean’s protests and judgments. 

Castiel stares down at Dean’s sleeping form. If he had his grace then he could smooth the lines on Dean’s forehead, he could ease the grip of his hands, he could stop the unhappy groans caught deep in his throat. He had before, when Dean was fresh from the horrors of Hell and unable to sleep through the night without the memories plaguing him. It was so easy then, to pass his hand over Dean’s forehead and ease him back into a deep, dreamless slumber.

There’s no power he possesses as a human that can perform the same kind of miracles as he did when he was an angel. Still, that doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t try. 

Castiel reaches out and strokes over Dean’s knuckles. His touch is light, almost nonexistent. It shouldn’t have any effect and yet, Dean’s fingers loosen their hold. A flame flickers into life in the barren, cold confines of Castiel’s chest. He almost smiles as he traces a soft line over the back of Dean’s hand. 

“Cas.” For the second time, Dean calls out his name and for the second time, Castiel jumps. 

“I’m here,” he answers. Dean might still be sleeping, but perhaps his voice can reach through the fog. 

“Gonna leave,” Dean mumbles. “Yer always...dun leave Cas, I can’t…” 

Dean’s words slash through any warmth in Castiel’s chest. Leaden guilt slides through his veins like sludge. He’s the reason that Dean’s sleep is disturbed. He’s the reason that Dean felt it necessary to fall into the comfort of a liquor bottle. If there’s better proof that Castiel is poison, then he invites someone else to find it. 

He wants nothing more than to slink away, but Dean’s eyes are fluttering and his mouth is twisted in an unhappy frown. It seems unspeakably cruel to leave Dean like this, especially with Dean’s accusations bouncing in his skull. Castiel reaches out to touch the back of Dean’s hand once more, but he’s not prepared for Dean’s fingers to curl around his. 

Castiel’s heart hammers against his ribcage. The mere touch of Dean’s fingers against his skin burns. He still hasn’t forgotten how it felt to have Dean pressed against his back, Dean’s fingers stroking along the lines of his stitches. Each brush had stolen the breath out of his lungs. Castiel could have sworn that he’d felt his molecules unraveling, that he was coming apart at the most basic of his structures. 

Dean doesn’t let go and Castiel can’t bear to pull away. “It’s all right Dean,” he says, stroking over a small scar on Dean’s thumb. “You can let go, it’s fine.” 

“Jus...just stay,” Dean sighs. If anything, his grip turns tighter. “Stay. _Cas_.” 

Something in Castiel’s chest cracks open. A void opens in him, hungry and empty, and the only thing he can think of to fill it is the man twisting in a restless sleep in front of him. Dean whimpers again. A bolt of pain rockets through Castiel’s skull in sympathy. 

If he were stronger then he would leave. If he were stronger then he never would have come to this house with Dean. But Castiel is not strong. He’s weak, pathetic, and he can’t deny himself or Dean the comfort that they so blindly seek. 

Castiel sits on the edge of the bed. It takes some finagling to avoid pulling out of Dean’s grasp, but he manages it. Dean’s mattress is soft, softer than his own, and Castiel’s body sighs in relief as he sinks down into it. 

His body aches and the pressure in his skull is swiftly becoming unbearable. What he craves more than anything, Castiel realizes as he allows his eyes to slip closed, is sleep. But sleep would involve leaving Dean, which he cannot do. 

Would it be so disastrous if he were to lay down next to Dean? The bed is so large that he doubts that he and Dean would even touch. And he is so very tired. 

Castiel stretches out his legs before he’s cognizant that he’s made a decision. It takes him several minutes to move his legs to a comfortable position. His main concern is to not wake Dean. He has no idea of what Dean’s reaction would be if he were to catch Castiel in the same bed as him, but he can guess. 

Castiel barely dares to breathe as he folds his body out onto the mattress. His spine pops and then relaxes. Even though he knows that this is the wrong decision, every time he moves, his body only thanks him. Castiel doesn’t stop until he’s lying flat on his back. Dean’s fingers are still wrapped around his and he doesn’t appear to have any intention of letting go. 

The longer he stays on Dean’s bed, the heavier his eyes become. It wouldn’t hurt much if he were to take a short rest, would it? It’s doubtful that Dean will wake soon and his body hurts. 

As Castiel relaxes, his breathing deepens. Far away, the mattress dips as Dean rolls over onto his side. Castiel’s fingers finally slip out of Dean’s grasp, but that soft touch is soon replaced by a heavy weight across his waist. Warmth settles against his side and Castiel smiles. 

“Cas,” Dean breathes. Delight squirms in Castiel’s belly at the pure satisfaction in Dean’s voice. “Cas. _Stay_.” 

Sleep tugs at the edges of his consciousness, or else Castiel would be weak enough to answer Dean’s plea. 

_Always_. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Something must have crawled into his mouth and died sometime in the middle of the night. That would explain why it feels like he swallowed a half ton of sandpaper. Dean licks at the roof of his mouth and his teeth, wincing at the fuzziness coating them. 

From the way that the sun lances through the window, it has to at least be mid-morning. Dean doesn’t dare open his eyes for fear that his head will actually split open. He’s ready to spend the whole day in bed--after all, it’s not like Cas would actively look for him--but the soft groan next to him obliterates that idea. 

Dean freezes. Within moments, he’s wracking his brain for the pertinent details of last night. He remembers Cas, drunk off his ass. He remembers yanking the bottles away before putting him to bed. He remembers Cas’ words--_I don’t belong here. I can’t stay here_. And then he remembers the pathetic retreat back to his room and the bitter taste of whiskey coating his tongue. 

It was stupid. He knows that, but there had been a sense of relief in the light-headed forgetfulness found in intoxication. For a few brief minutes, he’d been able to purge Cas’ words from his mind until he fell into a fitful quasi-sleep. 

The groan sounds again and Dean risks opening his eyes just a slit. He’s immediately faced with a view that sends his heart spiraling down to his knees and then back up his throat. 

What the _hell_ is Cas doing in his bed?

Snatches of his dream flash by--Cas in the reaper’s chair, blood soaking into the fabric beneath him, his screams echoing in the small apartment. Cas walking away from him. Cas, lying in that field, bloody apologies burbling from his lips as Dean’s hands tried to push the blood back into his body. And then...Dean’s cheeks color as he takes in the dark splash of Cas’ eyelashes against his skin. 

He’d thought that it was just part of his dream. Had he really begged Cas to stay? More surprisingly, had Cas listened? 

Heat floods through Dean when he notices the position of his arm on Cas’ waist. It only gets worse when he takes in the whole picture. Somehow during the night he pulled Cas flush against him, until his forehead rests against Cas’ shoulder and his ankle is hooked between Cas’. The whole position comes dangerously close to cuddling, and if there’s one thing that he’s made damn certain through the years, it’s the fact that Dean Winchester does not cuddle. 

Except apparently Dean Winchester does cuddle. More damning is that, judging from the spark of joy dancing in the pit of his stomach, Dean Winchester _enjoys_ cuddling. Cas is warm and solid in his arms. As he watches Cas’ face shift in his sleep, something bright rises in Dean’s chest until it prickles behind his eyes and in his nose. Here, with no one else to watch him or judge him, Dean allows himself to relax into the peace of having Cas next to him. 

Cas groans softly before he rolls over to face Dean. One hand reaches out across the mattress, creeping dangerously close to Dean’s body. For a single, wild moment, Dean wants nothing more than to entwine their fingers together and pull Cas closer towards him, till their chests are brushing, till he can feel the soft puffs of Cas’ breath against the hollow of his throat. 

It’s a futile and ridiculous hope, one that Dean tries to squash. It still wriggles under his skin, no matter how much he tries to deny it. Even as he extracts himself with all the care of defusing a bomb, that hope still rears its head. The soft impact of his feet against the floor causes Cas to flinch in his sleep, but he doesn’t wake. After another few moments, Cas relaxes, his mouth slack and open, fingers curled in a loose fist around the edge of the sheet. 

Affection sparks fierce in Dean’s chest. He waits for it to abate, but instead, it grows, the longer he stares at Cas. It’s fierce and tender, and it makes Dean feel like he could lift the Impala over his head. Last night’s hopelessness burns and disappears. Dean reaches down and brushes a wisp of hair off of Cas’ forehead. He can’t, he _won’t_ give this up. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	13. hand full of lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a long road, but it does lead up.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Castiel wakes with panic caught in his throat. 

He doesn’t recognize where he is. The sunlight hits him differently, and his sheets don’t carry this particular scent. His mattress doesn’t sink with his weight. Castiel forces his blurry eyes to take in as many details of the room as possible. After a few seconds of adjustment, he picks out the photographs on the wall as well as the furniture. This is...This is Dean’s room, and oh _God_, he’s in Dean’s bed. 

The events of the previous night trickle into his head. The taste of alcohol heavy on his tongue, acidic bile rising in his throat. Dean, asleep and calling out. Dean’s fingers wrapped around his hand. And then...Castiel had…Heat blooms across his cheeks and ears as Castiel remembers crawling into Dean’s bed like some shameless and needy thing. 

It comes as no surprise that he’s alone. He’s more surprised that he wasn’t woken by Dean either yelling at him or worse, physically kicking him out of the bed without the courtesy of a wake-up call. Castiel sits up, wincing as his back protests the change in position. 

For a brief moment, excitement flares at the thought of visiting the rabbit nest, before he remembers. His rabbits are dead, and that thought sits like a stone in the pit of his belly as he gets out of Dean’s bed. He pauses before he leaves the room--he always leaves his blankets in a tangled mess every morning, but he knows that Dean remakes his bed with exact precision. No doubt that Dean will be irritated if his bed isn’t put back to his standards. 

Castiel rolls his eyes and pulls at the sheets and blankets. Dean taught him how to do this, back at the bunker, but the memory is fuzzy. He thinks that he can recall the basics, but even if he can’t, how difficult could it be to make a bed? 

Fifteen minutes later, Castiel is forced to consider that making a bed is apparently more difficult than he originally thought. None of the blankets seem to want to lie straight. Unsightly wrinkles ruin the smooth lines of the bed and Castiel huffs in irritation as he tries again. He knows for a fact that human children manage this chore. Finally, with a last tug of the top blanket, Castiel steps back and surveys his work. It’s still not the unblemished final product of Dean’s, but it certainly looks better than before. 

After finishing Dean’s bed, it seems counterproductive not to fix his own. This time Castiel remembers the motions and it takes him half the time to make his own bed. A flicker of pride lights in him as he looks at his blankets. A few lumps still mar the smooth surface, but for his second time, it’s not a bad start. 

A new problem arises as Castiel looks around the room. The neatness of the bed serves to call the shabbiness of the rest of the room into sharp relief. Dirty clothes spill out of the hamper onto the floor. Several plates sit around his room, each with their own colony of flies picking at the meager crumbs still housed there. 

After a few moments of searching, Castiel finds the empty basket, set aside for specifically this purpose. It takes him an eternity to bend down and pick up the first shirt from the floor, but once the first shirt finds its way into the basket, the rest go easier. It doesn’t take him long before he clears the floor of his clothes. He sniffs at them before they go into the basket--they smell stale, like dried sweat and neglect. 

Speaking of...Castiel sniffs at an armpit before he ducks his nose underneath the collar of his shirt. He only has to inhale once before he emerges with a wrinkled nose. The stench of alcohol, sweat, and stale vomit cling to his skin and clothes. The combination is unpleasant to say the least. His skin craves the renewal of a shower, and Castiel makes his way across the hall to the bathroom. 

The warm water of the shower beats along his shoulders and neck and Castiel loses himself in the soothing rhythm. Half-drunk on the heat and moisture, Castiel soaps up a cloth and scrubs at his skin until it tingles with sensation. He half expects there to be pain, but there’s nothing, other than his skin singing with the joy of touch. Castiel spends long moments trailing his fingers over his neck, his shoulders, and his chest, reveling in the sensation. He presses his thumb into the crook of his elbow. He strokes over the cleft in his chin. He shakes his head to feel the water fly from the tips of his hair. 

It was a human idea, to dip believers in the water and wash them clean of sins. Underneath the spray of the shower, Castiel understands why. 

He emerges from the bathroom, pink and glistening. The warm air washes over his skin, but instead of feeling like an assault, it feels like a caress. The whisper of clean clothes over clean skin is a novelty, one too long missed, and Castiel takes a moment to move around the room just to savor the feeling. He breathes in, and for a moment, he can envision breathing in the life which surrounds the house in a vivid array of colors and sounds. 

It takes him a moment to balance the dirty plates on top of his laundry, but Castiel manages. Walking down the stairs with his burden proves a little more difficult, but Castiel gets himself, the basket, and the dishes downstairs with a minimum of fuss or effort. There’s only one factor that he didn’t take into account. This variable sits at the half-finished kitchen table and drinks from a mug of coffee while idly flipping through a paperback. 

Dean quickly schools the expression of surprise off his face, but Castiel catches it before it’s gone. “Laundry day?” Dean asks. A wry smile twists his face and Castiel finds that he enjoys the sight of it. 

“The clothes were starting to gain an odor,” Castiel replies. He ducks his eyes down but can’t help looking at Dean through the curtain of his lashes. 

Dean’s snort says clearly enough what he thinks about Castiel’s summary. It’s not meant to be insulting, but it’s also not meant as a compliment. Castiel chooses to ignore it altogether as he makes his way to the small room just off the kitchen where the washing machine sits. He sorts through his clothes and starts the machine. All the while, he feels Dean’s eyes on his back, but when he turns around, Dean pretends like he was looking elsewhere. 

When he sits at the table, Dean wordlessly shoves a plate in front of him. There’s nothing special on the plate, just a sandwich, but Castiel’s stomach rumbles in approval. From the small quirk of Dean’s lips, Castiel guesses that he approves. For a while the only sound between the two of them is the muted noise of his chewing as Castiel demolishes the sandwich with single minded intent. Dean watches him, but for once his scrutiny doesn’t set off an itch beneath Castiel’s skin. Instead of a cloying concern, pity, or irritation, there’s a softness to Dean’s gaze that Castiel wants to bask in. It reminds him of the sunrise gentle on the back of his neck. 

“So.” Dean’s voice is soft, with none of the brashness that Castiel has come to associate with him throughout the years. “Are we going to talk about last night or…?”

Castiel spares a short glare in Dean’s direction. Dean only asked his question after Castiel had taken a bite of his sandwich, ensuring that Castiel would have no ready answer. It’s a sneaky move, and one which he doesn’t appreciate. He appreciates less having force a solid lump of bread and meat down his throat just so he can answer Dean. 

Castiel’s stomach churns and it ruins any pleasure he finds in the meal. “What would you like to talk about?” There are many things Dean could choose to talk about, none of them particularly pleasant. 

Unbidden, the memory of stretching out next to Dean bubbles to the forefront of his mind. Castiel’s cheeks heat as he meets Dean’s gaze. Disappointment seeps through his skin as he tries to anticipate how this conversation will go--the morning had been going so well, and now this threatens to ruin everything. 

Dean shrugs before his eyes dart away. His discomfort is a palpable thing and it turns the taste of the sandwich bitter in his mouth. Reluctantly, Castiel sets it down and pushes the plate aside. It’s doubtful that he’ll find any more enjoyment in it. Instead, Castiel turns his attention to Dean. He knows that Dean can be stubborn, and there’s no doubt in his mind that Dean is trying to outwait him and force him to speak, but Castiel has the patience of centuries on his side. 

True to his expectations, Dean breaks first. “You can’t just go and get drunk when you get upset,” he mumbles. “It’s not healthy.” 

Irritation and anger spark in Castiel, fanned to a flame by the depths of Dean’s hypocrisy. “It wasn’t me who emptied those bottles last night, Dean.” 

To his credit, Dean flinches at the snap Castiel puts at the end of his voice. He rubs his hands through his hair and lets his breath out in an explosive sigh before he turns to Castiel. “I’m not saying that I didn’t fuck up either. But I…” Dean looks down at the table. Castiel can’t see his full expression, only the hard set of his jaw which means that Dean’s come to some sort of decision. “I don’t like seeing you like that. And I know that it’s my fault because I gave you a shitty example of what people are supposed to do when they’re feeling upset, so I don’t have the room to say it but…” Dean abruptly cuts off his rambling and looks at Castiel. 

Castiel is prepared to be furious. He’s ready to cling to his anger and frustration and unleash his emotions on Dean. What he’s not prepared for is the bleak look in Dean’s eyes and the naked, pleading look in his eyes. 

“Please. Just...please don’t do that again.” 

A memory tugs at the edges of Castiel’s mind, when he was in the hospital and Dean was looking at him with the same expression. They’d been arguing about the painkillers and Dean had been adamant that Castiel not push the button. Castiel had agreed, partly because it seemed the easiest way to make Dean relent and partly because it had twisted his chest inside to see Dean look so lost and concerned. 

“Is this like the painkillers?”

Dean jerks at the question. Obviously he wasn’t expecting it, but after a moment, the panic fades from his face to be replaced by something else--understanding maybe? Gratitude? 

“Yeah. It’s...Look.” Dean puffs out another sigh. Castiel waits. “You remember when Zachariah sent me to that weirdo future? The one where Sam said yes to Lucifer?” Castiel nods, unsure of what point Dean is trying to make. “I never told you, but you were there too.” 

That admission is enough to make Castiel twitch in surprise. He looks at Dean, but Dean’s eyes are fixed to a point beyond Castiel’s sight. “You’d fallen and were human, or close enough to it, and you…” Dean’s eyes close in pain and he shakes his head like he’s trying to shake the memories away. “You were so damn miserable. Anything you could think of to shove down your throat--pills, booze…” Dean laughs in a humorless chuckle, “hell, even orgies--whatever it was, you took it, just so you could forget how much you hated being human. It was…” 

Dean’s eyes are bright and the sight of moisture glimmering at the edges of them twists something in Castiel’s chest. “You’re a grumpy son of a bitch, but that’s you. That other version...It took the best parts of you away and I couldn’t...That other version of me, he just let you...” Dean’s throat works as he swallows and tears his eyes away from Castiel. 

Castiel’s left with the feeling that there’s something that Dean isn’t telling him, but he can let it be for the moment. It’s more important to him that he wipes that expression away from Dean’s face. 

“That’s not me.” Castiel wants to reach across the table and lay his fingers over Dean’s wrist, but he’s not sure if he’s allowed. “Whatever Zachariah showed you...It was meant to disturb you, scare you. In order to manipulate you, he would have shown you the worst possible version of everyone you knew.” Dean’s shoulders remain obstinately tense, telling Castiel that his explanation is falling on deaf ears. “But if it matters that much to you, I will do my best not to imbibe any mind-altering substances.”

Dean’s head jerks up. An odd assortment of emotions chase themselves across Dean’s face before he wipes his expression clean. “Cas, you don’t have to...I know that you haven’t had a good example of how to deal with all this shit. I mean, hell, you had me as a role model. Probably would have been better off with Sam, he would have taught you some bullshit yoga or something to--”

“Dean.” Castiel puts the crack of command into his voice again, and just like before, Dean’s pointless babble cuts to a sudden stop. “Ceasing alcohol consumption isn’t a particular hardship for me. I don’t particularly enjoy the taste of liquor and I certainly don’t enjoy losing control of myself. As far as you’re concerned, I wish that you wouldn’t turn to this method of coping, but I certainly can’t stop you.” 

Something close to satisfaction curls in Castiel’s chest when he finishes speaking. While the easy comfort of before has been lost, this conversation is necessary, like cleaning dirt out of a wound before bandaging it. Castiel bites at his lower lip for a moment before he pushes on. “If anything, I would have thought that you would be angry about finding me in your bed this morning.” 

He expects the sudden scarlet blooming along Dean’s ears and cheeks. He expects Dean’s sputter and the half-formed curses which pop out of his mouth. What he doesn’t expect is the quick flash in Dean’s eyes. It’s there and gone within a blink, but this time Castiel can put a name to the emotion--happiness. 

“Jesus Cas, don’t...You can’t say shit like that.” Dean coughs and rubs at his chest, but the motions look over-exaggerated and the whole thing feels like an act. Castiel’s chest opens and he takes a full breath for what feels like the first time in months. 

“So you weren’t angry?” It might be cruel of him to push like this, but he needs to know. 

Dean takes a long time to answer, but when he does, it’s quiet and spoken to the table. “No, I’m not angry. It was...surprising, yeah, but I’m not mad.” 

Warmth pours through Castiel’s veins, replacing the dreary sludge of days past. It’s intoxicating, more so than the alcohol of last night, and instead of spiking through his blood, this emotion just makes him feel like he could float away. Dean’s voice drifts through his memories--_Stay_. 

He doesn’t understand Dean’s motivations or thoughts. He doesn’t know if this odd, honest mood of Dean’s will stretch into the next day, or if he’ll wake up and deal with the belligerent, aggressive version of Dean he’s come to know so well. He can’t promise that he won’t wake up tomorrow hating his mortality and every trapping of humanity.

But Castiel knows that here, in this moment, he wants to stay. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It’s been a weird-ass day. 

First, he woke up with Cas pressed against him, which was pretty much the culmination of every one of his wet dreams ever. Then Cas actually brought his laundry down and voluntarily washed his clothes without a twenty minute lecture from Dean about how he needed to start taking care of himself and that it wasn’t Dean’s job to be his maid, dammit. And then Cas had taken the sandwich that Dean made him and actually eaten it instead of nibbling around the edges.

And then...Dean’s still not sure of how he feels about their conversation. On the one hand--Holy shit. Actual communication with words and emotions. On the other hand--Actual communication with words and emotions. 

He’s been holding in the truth about Zachariah’s funhouse world for about eleven years, and telling Cas everything feels oddly liberating. It’s an uncertain emotion, one that Dean isn’t sure he actually likes. It’s not as if Dean has much to compare it to. 

Of course, he didn’t tell Cas everything. He kept back the part about how his alternate counterpart had thrown Cas into the grinder with nary a second look. Dean still has nightmares about that one, about becoming the kind of person who would do that to their friends, to Cas...Yeah, he kept that one back. But everything else...Holy shit. 

Even given the fact that he and Cas have talked more in the past forty-five minutes than they have in the past two weeks, when he asks Cas to join him on a grocery run, he’s really not expecting Cas to take him up on it. When Cas does, and more surprisingly yet, when he looks interested at the prospect, Dean finally understands the expression shit a brick. 

All the way to the store, Cas peers out the passenger window. Every time Dean slants his gaze to the side, the ember glowing in his chest sparks and grows. While Cas’ expression is introspective, it’s a curious sort of thoughtfulness, not the morose, nihilistic leanings of before. While Cas’ attention is turned to the small artisan shops on Main Street, Dean surreptitiously pinches himself. Not a dream then. 

Cas’ mood sours when they enter the superstore, but that’s to be expected. Dean’s mood dips as well, but that’s from the crush of people and the vaguely soulless atmosphere of large box stores. This isn’t his usual stop. Most of the time he prefers the smaller grocery store-their prices might be higher, but Dean also values his time. At his normal store, he’s usually in and out in under thirty minutes, but they need more from this venture than mere food. Hence, the box store run.

Castiel cocks his head curiously when Dean approaches the clothing section. “You need more than just three shirts and two pairs of pants. It’s going to be getting cold soon and you don’t have any sort of gear for that.” 

Castiel makes a small moue of displeasure. “Doesn’t the house have heat?”

“Sure the house has heat,” Dean answers. A rack of hoodies catches his eye, and he gives Cas a cursory glance to determine whether he’s more of a medium or a large. It’s no hardship for him to size Cas up. In fact, he lets his eyes linger a little longer, just for the fun of it. “But you’re going to need something warm while you’re helping me with chores outside.”

“Outside? _Chores_?” There’s something plaintive in Cas’ voice that makes Dean laugh. 

“Shoveling the walk, cleaning off the cars, taking care of the windows and paint...whatever the hell else I can think of.” Dean shoves a pile of clothing into Cas’ arms and takes him by the elbow to the dressing room. 

The litany of complaints as Cas tries on jeans and shirts is almost constant, but even the return of his grumpiness is uplifting. At least Cas gives a damn about something enough to register an emotion. Dean leans against the opposite door and responds to Cas’ petulant insults against the fabric of the shirts, as well as arguing about the pointlessness of shoveling the walk when it’s just going to get snowed on again. The whisper of fabric as well as the heavy clink and thud of jeans hitting the ground sends a delightful shiver down Dean’s spine as he waits. 

Despite Cas’ best efforts, they make it out of the clothing section with several new shirts and pants. Cas keeps on giving him little disgruntled looks, but Dean’s still riding so high that, if he’s not careful, he might shoot rainbows out of his ass. Buoyed up by his good cheer, he leads Cas into the meat section of the store and starts flipping through the selection of steaks and ground beef. 

“I was thinking burgers one day this week.” 

Dean speaks without thinking. It’s a habit, not a good one, of making too many grocery runs alone. He likes to voice his thoughts into the air and see if they’re as good as he thinks they are when they hit the flat air. He almost drops the ground beef in his hands when Cas answers him. “As long as you make the fries with them. I enjoyed those the last time.” 

The last time Dean cooked burgers on the grill, Cas had eaten maybe half of the burger and used his fries to push around a pile of ketchup on his plate, but Dean tactfully leaves that out. “All right, well if you want fries, then we’re going to need potatoes.” Cas looks expectantly at him and Dean pushes his luck just one more time. “Russet. At least six. Try and make sure that they’re at least the size of your palm.” 

Cas cocks his head to the side. For a moment, Dean thinks that he’s going to get an argument, or worse, that Cas is just going to shut down, but this is the day that keeps on giving. Following the path of Dean’s finger, Cas trots off to the produce section. Dean watches him leave and his heart rises with every step. 

Normally, grocery shopping is a necessary evil for Dean. He’s not particularly fond of the lines or of comparing prices, and usually by the time he makes the journey to the store, he’s exhausted from the day’s work. But grocery shopping with an invested Cas? Well that’s a whole different story. 

Dean picks up the necessities, all the while taking suggestions from Cas. Now that Cas is offering opinions, Dean discovers that he gravitates more towards carb-heavy, comfort foods--pasta, rice, soups. Which is fine, because Dean can make a hell of a lasagna as well as garlic bread to die for, which he tells Cas. Cas’ small hum of interest is enough to get Dean bragging about what else he could make--beef tenderloins and mashed potatoes, shrimp stir-fry, steaks. 

“You should probably include some vegetables,” Cas suggests, after Dean describes the meatloaf he plans on baking. “Otherwise Sam will complain.” 

“Well if Sam cares that bad, then he can get his ass over here,” Dean snaps, but he throws in a few packages of frozen vegetables just to keep Cas from bitching. “Come to think of it--” He whips his phone out of his back pocket, finger already thumbing over the camera icon.

While they’re good, Cas’ reflexes aren’t angel-quick anymore, which means that Dean actually gets a halfway decent picture of him in the middle of the cereal aisle. It’s halfway decent in that it gives a clear picture of just how displeased Cas is with him for making him undergo the indignity that is candid photography. An impressive scowl twists Cas’ features and Dean can’t help but be reminded of a grumpy cat. 

“Should have smiled. This one’s going to Sam.” Dean chuckles as he sends the photo to Sam, sans caption. No doubt Sam will be able to think of an appropriate title. Dean just wants a reminder of today, proof that they can possibly move forward. 

Proof that maybe there’s a light at the end of this long tunnel. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	14. food on the table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Meg, the hellbeast.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Grocery shopping lasts for an hour, but that’s just because Dean keeps on stopping to ask Cas’ opinion on every aisle. He even makes small talk about paper towels for Christ’s sake. Who does that? Cas squints suspiciously at him, like maybe discussing buoyancy is going a little too far, but he debates the relative merits of Brawny versus Bounce, until Dean picks the one with the hot lumberjack on the logo. 

Cas rolls his eyes when Dean explains his reasoning. “It’s not like the picture is on the individual towels,” Cas remarks, giving Dean a dirty look before he goes to pick dish detergent, this time alone and free of commentary. 

Cas grows silent as they walk back out to the car. The sun is just starting to set and Dean looks up at the spikes of orange and pink streaking through the sky. It’s not a bad ending to the day, not bad at all. He pops the Impala’s trunk and starts loading the bags. It takes Dean just a few moments to realize that he’s loading the car alone. Concern spikes through him as he glances around and doesn’t find Cas in the immediate vicinity. Not that he thinks that they would get attacked here in the middle of the parking lot of Battleborough, Vermont, but there’s all sorts of weird things that can happen to a human. 

Like coming face to face with a stray cat. 

Dean smells trouble a mile away when he sees Cas squatting in front of a small, black cat. They’re off to the side of the lot, where the scraggly grass encroaches on the pavement, so there’s no worry about being hit by a car, but there’s still the worry about Cas getting attached. Baby rabbits are all right. A cat, less so. 

“Leave it alone Cas,” Dean calls from a safe distance. “It probably has some kind of disease.” 

“You have no proof of that,” Cas answers. Dean rolls his eyes at the distraction in Cas’ voice. He’s familiar with this tone: it means that while Cas is listening and responding, and maybe even capable of holding a mostly sensible conversation, he’s not actually paying attention to anything around him. “It’s much more likely that she’s just hungry and tired.” 

“Oh no, Cas, don’t do that.” 

“Do what?”

“Start calling it a she, because then you’re going to get attached and you’re to want--”

“Dean, she doesn’t have a collar. I think that she might be homeless.” 

“To keep it,” Dean finishes, with a sinking sensation in his gut. And the day had been going so well. He abandons the groceries as he walks over to Cas. “Cas, seriously. Come on. Just leave it.”

The look Cas shoots at him over his shoulder is usually reserved for those who suggest genocide as a viable option to combat overpopulation. “Dean. She’s skinny and obviously a stray.” 

“Maybe her people are just in the store,” Dean tries, in a last-ditch effort. “They’ll be out in a second.” 

Cas doesn’t bother to dignify that with a response. Above Dean’s loud objections, he stretches out his hand. The cat looks at it for a second before sniffing his fingers and rubbing her cheek over them. A surprisingly loud purr emanates from her chest. If Dean liked cats, then he would consider it adorable. 

“She’s friendly,” Cas says as he rubs underneath the cat’s chin and behind her ears. “It’s not fair to make her stay out here where she could starve or get hit by a car.” 

“Cas, buddy, I’ve got allergies. You bring that cat into the house and I’m going to be sneezing my head off.”

“Don’t they make pills for allergies?” 

Dean rolls his eyes. Of course Cas would consider that a logical solution. “Yeah, but I don’t want to take a Benadryl every morning just so I can function. Look, if it matters that much to you, then we’ll take her to the shelter and they can find a good home for her.” 

“Dean,” Cas begins in a scandalized tone, glaring at him like Dean’s the monster for wanting the small luxury of breathing. “They murder animals there. Shelters are overcrowded and most animals only have a three day waiting period before they’re euthanized. It's slim odds for any animal, but it’ll be worse for her because most potential pet owners want a kitten and not a full grown cat.” 

When Cas stands, the cat sticks close to him, winding in sinuous figure-eights around his ankles. Dean steels himself, but it’s looking less and less likely that he’s getting out this scenario without adding another member to the household. “Dean, please. She doesn’t have anywhere else to go and she needs our help. It doesn’t seem fair to condemn her.” 

There’s no way that Cas knows how powerful those baby-blues are when he unleashes them. They go huge and wide and practically shimmer with emotion. Between the eyes and the slight pout in Cas’ lower lip, Dean’s done for. 

He doesn’t like cats. He’s allergic, not to mention that they piss and shit in the house, which means that if you’re not obsessive about cleaning their pans, your whole house reeks of the stuff. Also, he’s fairly certain that he read an article once that talked about how cats will sleep on your face and try to smother you. And that’s not even considering that fact that they eat your body once you’re dead, and Dean doesn’t fully trust anything that will turn to human flesh. 

He mentions all of these objections to Cas, who, typically, has a rebuttal for every problem Dean raises, provided he doesn’t outright ignore them. “Besides, cats are hunters, not scavengers,” he tells Dean, in the infuriatingly placid tone that hints at infinite knowledge. “It’s much more likely for a dog to consume you.” 

“One, not comforting, two, I don’t like dogs either.” Cas bends down and Dean sees what he plans to do. “Don’t pick it up Cas, it could scratch you, it could have rabies--” Once again, he’s ignored as Cas carefully supports the cat’s bottom as he cuddles it to his chest. The expression on the cat’s face is distinctly smug as she looks up at Dean through half-slitted eyes. Cas’ fingers rub underneath her chin down to her chest. Dean watches the slow journey and wonders if it’s normal to be jealous of a cat. 

“Dean. Look at her.” 

Dean attempts to scour his heart of any uncharitable emotions and look at the cat with unbiased eyes. For a cat, she is sort of cute. She’s jet black, with overly large green eyes and a tiny pink nose. The cat blinks slowly at him, and Dean’s almost halfway seduced, until she opens her mouth in a wide yawn, revealing an assortment of razor sharp daggers. Dean jerks back, his fingers already smarting in imagined pain. Cas wants to bring that into his house? 

“Give her a chance. Please?”

Cas is doing the thing with his eyes and mouth and Dean’s weak, he’s so weak for this man. “Fine. Fine.” He’s going to regret this, there’s no way that he’s not, but he can’t say no, not when Cas’ eyes are shining and his jaw juts out with determination. 

He points a cautionary finger at Cas. “But you’re going to feed it and clean up after it, all right?” Cas nods and Dean continues, feeling like he’s talking to a particularly large teenager. “I’m serious Cas. I’m not going to have my house smelling like cat piss because you didn’t feel like cleaning the pan. And so help me god, if it pukes in my shoes--”

“She won’t. Will you?” Cas addresses his question towards the cat and Dean feels it again, that weird slip-slide of jealousy. It’s humiliating, but he dares anyone else to feel otherwise, when confronted with the softness of Cas’ gaze and the tenderness in his voice. 

“Whatever. You’re going to have to hold her while we go and get supplies. There’s no way that I’m letting her loose in Baby.” Cas tilts his head, which brings his cheek closer to the cat’s face. She stretches to rub her cheek against Cas’ chin. It’s quite frankly disgusting. Dean gets in the car to escape the sight, but he does lean over the seat and pop the passenger door open for Cas. 

As Cas settles into the seat, Dean’s eyes start watering. On cue, he sneezes three times, each of them explosive. “Great,” Dean growls, sniffling. Cas shoots him an apologetic look, but doesn’t stop rubbing at the spot behind the cat’s ear. “You’d better hope that I have some pills at home.” 

\--

Dean’s never been so glad for fake credit cards as when he and Cas finish their jaunt through the pet store. The moment they enter, Cas makes a beeline for the carriers. Dean nixes Cas’ first choice (Dude, it’s a friggin’ purse), but the mesh backpack that Cas settles on isn’t half bad. There’s always the chance that he’ll forget he has the bookbag on and crush the cat, but Dean’s not getting his hopes up. 

Throughout their time in the store, Cas maintains a running commentary with the cat. Dean doesn’t quite catch any of it, but from the little he can make out, it seems like Cas asks the cat her opinion on everything from food to the color of the toys he picks out. It would be endearing if it weren’t so idiotic. Dean never pegged Cas for a crazy cat-lady type, but here they both are, in a pet store, chipping away at their hard-conned cash, while Cas debates between the merits of a blue or green food bowl. 

“It’s an important choice Dean,” Cas says when Dean tries to make the point that the design of the food mat isn’t necessarily a life or death decision. Cas’ tone is deliberately patient and condescending enough that Dean grits his teeth and counts backwards from a hundred. 

From her place in the carrier, the cat pipes up with an accusatory meow. Cas shushes her, looking apologetically, not at Dean or at the other patrons of the store, but rather at the cat. At the sound of his voice, the cat’s howls soften to mere murmurs. Dean rolls his eyes. The last thing he needs is Cas the cat-whisperer. 

When Cas starts debating over the merits of organic versus regular catnip, Dean reaches the end of his admittedly short patience. His mouth opens and even though he knows that something nasty is about to come out, Dean can’t stop himself. At least, he can’t until Cas glances at him. Dean’s heart does the little skip-thump that, outside of Cas’ presence, it never does. A tiny smile spreads across Cas’ face, like he has insider knowledge on the workings of Dean’s circulatory system. 

Cas doesn’t break eye contact. Even though Dean loves it, someone’s going to think that two grown men having a staring contest in the aisle of a PetCo is pretty damn weird. “Something you want to get off your chest Cas?” Dean finally asks, gruffer than usual. 

Then he looks, really looks at Cas’ face. All he can find writ in Cas’ expression is peace. It’s the serenity of the ocean, the timelessness of the canyons. Dean falls into it and swears that he can feel his rough edges smooth away. Cas’ smile spreads, calm as a lullaby. “Thank you,” he says, and the words are sweet as honey, soaking through Dean’s body and into his aching bones like a warm bath. 

Such a simple phrase. _Thank you_. How many times has he said that, for something as simple as a waitress giving him an extra napkin? The count must be in the thousands, but somehow, this time, the syllables rolling off of Cas’ lips, the acknowledgement…

This time, not even his sneeze can ruin the glow settling in his chest. 

\--

The cat settles into the house like she was meant to be there. It doesn’t take more than a day before she’s underfoot, prompting Dean to nudge her aside with the toe of his boot every time she comes too close to one of his projects. He usually has to repeat the process at least twice before she gets the message. Then Dean gets a dirty look while the cat slinks away in search of Cas. It’s obvious to Dean who would be Cool Dad if they had kids--every time the cat sulks off to find Cas, he picks her up and murmurs sweet nothings to her until she settles into his lap or on his shoulder. 

He will not feel jealous over a six pound animal. He’s Dean Winchester and he’s better than that. 

Though maybe he wishes that he could bump his nose into Cas’ with no repercussions. 

The problem with the cat (one of the problems--even with a daily dose of antihistamines, Dean’s eyes are still in a permanent state of itchiness) becomes apparent after just a few days. 

It’s breakfast time and the smell of cooking bacon permeates the kitchen. In the past week he and Cas have replaced the countertops and finished sanding and restaining the cabinets. Dean still wants to replace the appliances, get a dual baker’s oven as well as a gas range capable of some real cooking, but for now their setup works. Cas had been there with him through the last steps, sanding and staining right along with him. True to form, once he put all of that terrifying focus towards the task, it had only taken Cas a few times to master the new skill. Dean watched Cas’ hands work in swift, sure motions and felt his stomach swoop and dive with every pass of Cas’ hands over the wood. 

After he takes the eggs off the heat, Dean cuts the power to the burners. He gives the pan an experimental shake, smiling at the jiggle of perfectly cooked, fluffy eggs. With Cas’ renewed interest in food, Dean does his best to make every meal restaurant quality. At his feet, the cat curls around his ankles, turning the simple act of cooking breakfast into an obstacle course. 

“Come on. Move.” Dean nudges at her with his bare toe. The cat remains stubbornly in place, looking up at him with a baleful glare. “Move Cat.” Cas still hasn’t picked out a name, which would be less annoying if he didn’t turn down every one of Dean’s suggestions. 

Normally Cat moves at the suggestion of pressure against her sides. If that doesn’t shift her, then his gruffest command voice will. But today, instead of skittering off across the kitchen, Cat pins her ears and hisses at him. “Cut it out,” Dean orders, giving her another nudge. 

Faster than he can see, the cat’s paw swipes at his foot. Dean jerks back instinctively, but not before bright agony blossoms across the top of his foot. It’s a small miracle that he doesn’t drop the food, though it’s a close call as he fumbles the pan. His foot throbs resentfully, and Dean bites out several curses as he hobbles to the counter. Three bright red lines mark the top of his foot and tiny beads of blood well from the scratches. 

“Oh, you little bitch,” Dean swears. If looks could kill, it would be a draw as to which of them would be dead first--as hard as he’s glaring at the cat, she’s matching him. Her tiny ears are pinned flat to her head and a warning growl scrapes out of her throat. 

“Dean? Is everything all right?” 

Cas’ voice appears before he does, brushing his fingers through his shower-damp hair. He does that now--shower. Every day, like a real human. And much as Dean loves the fresh out the shower look on him, when Cas’ skin is still flushed and damp, water running down the back of his neck, the pleasure is muted today. 

“Your hellbeast…” Dean sputters as he tries to find a way to tell the story that doesn’t end with him cussing out the cat. 

Cas’ eyes go from the cat, to Dean, to Dean’s foot, back to the cat. He seems to put the pieces together, but in the wrong order, as he has the temerity to frown at Dean. “What’d you do to upset her?” 

Dean gapes. “What did I do?” He points and it’s probably stupid to feel this betrayed by a cat, but at this point, he thinks he’s entitled. After all, this cat is the reason that he wakes up with itchy eyes and a constant tickle in the back of his throat. Not to mention that Cas looks at the cat with the kind of tenderness that Dean would actually kill for, as long as he could have it directed towards him. And now, to add insult to literal injury, he’s been attacked in his own home. He’s bleeding in his kitchen. “Your little...bitch over here…”

Cas frowns in the vaguely disapproving way that he does. “Dean, please don’t curse at the cat. If you didn’t kick her out of the way, then she wouldn’t feel the need to defend herself.” 

Anger bubbles in Dean’s gut, ruining what looked like it was going to be a promising morning. He won’t deny that he’s shoved the cat out the way with his foot, but he’s never once kicked her. People who beat animals are on the same level as people who beat kids--absolute and utter scum. There’s a special place in hell reserved for them. Dean knows. He’s seen it. 

“Whatever,” he finally spits, turning back to the stove. The smell hasn’t abated in the slightest, but any trace of hunger has long since vanished. “Breakfast is ready whenever you want it. I’m going to grab a shower.” 

He doesn’t need a shower, but he doesn’t want to be in the kitchen anymore, not with Cas and the stupid cat making eyes at each other. The top of his foot hurts and if nothing else, he does need to put some peroxide on it. He’s almost made his escape when Cas’ hand stretches out and snags his sleeve. 

“Dean.” 

Normally the sound of that voice is enough to calm him, but Dean’s heated. “What Cas?” he snaps, tugging his arm out of Cas’ grasp. When Cas doesn’t speak, his irritation only grows. “I’ve got a lot of stuff to do today and I don’t have time to waste.” 

“I don’t know why she scratched you,” Cas says, contrite in the face of Dean’s ire. Normally that would be enough to soothe him, but Dean is beyond done with this line of conversation. 

“Whatever Cas. It doesn’t matter.”

“You let her stay here,” Cas insists, but his eyes slide away from Dean’s. There’s a hidden current to his words, sliding just under the surface. After a moment, Dean understands--_You let me stay here_. 

Instantly, he feels like an asshole. Who cares if the cat scratched him? She makes Cas happy; that much is evident to anyone that has eyes. Now that he has the cat to pick up after, Cas actually gets out of bed at a reasonable time and participates in chores and conversation. He accompanies Dean on grocery runs so that he can get food and toys for the cat. Dean even caught him puttering around in the backyard one afternoon. When asked, Castiel muttered something about starting a garden so he could grow catnip. 

“She needed a place to stay,” Dean says. He’s feeling his way around the current of the conversation, trying to find safe ground. “She was looking for a home.” 

Something relaxes in Cas’ eyes, a release of tension that Dean didn’t know was there until it was gone. “It’s a good home,” Cas tells him. There’s still something lingering in the back of his eyes, but in the wake of his smile, Dean lets himself forget it, at least for the moment. 

“And look, she’s sorry.” Cas scoops the cat up before Dean has a chance to argue and walks over to him. The cat is a willing prisoner, at least until she gets within sniffing distance of Dean. Then, the tip of her tail starts twitching. She flexes her claws in what Dean considers a clear warning, but Cas clearly considers cute, considering that he rubs his knuckles underneath her chin. “Look, give her a pet.” 

There’s nothing that Dean wants to do less than give the cat a pet, but Cas’ eyes are imploring and Dean’s weak, he’s so goddamn _weak_ for this man. He reaches out, despite his reservations, and his fingers are almost buried in the thick, soft fur and then--

Dean yowls as claws rake against the back of his hand, opening up several new bloody furrows in his skin. He snatches his hand back as he tests out his knowledge of various curses once more. He glares at the cat, for all the good that’ll do him, but it’s Cas who steals the show. 

He doesn’t exactly drop the cat, but he sets her down more roughly than is his wont. She looks up at him and yowls before dancing through his ankles, but Cas neatly sidesteps her. “Bad,” he scolds, like the fucking cat has a grasp of the English language and can understand the ramifications of her actions. “How dare you?”

There’s a hint of ozone in the air, sharp and bitter, and Dean thrills to smell it. It reminds him of the old days, when Cas would burst into a room, all snapping electricity and rumbling fury. It’s wildly inappropriate, but he can’t help the stirring in his groin at the steel glare of Cas’ eyes and the slight curl of his upper lip. 

“Cas, it’s fine,” Dean tries, but Cas shakes off his placating hand. 

“No, she has to understand that what she did was wrong.” 

It’s all kinds of endearing that Cas is that upset, but it’s just a cat. “Cas, seriously.” Dean grabs his elbow and turns him to face him. “She’s a cat and it happens.” Cas still doesn’t look convinced. “I did tell you that she didn’t like me though, so see what you get for not listening to me.” A flicker of guilt crosses Cas’ face, and that won’t do. Dean waves his hand underneath Cas’ face. “Seriously. I’m not even hurt.” 

Cas examines the back of his hand a hell of a lot more carefully than a few scratches warrant. His breath hits the back of Dean’s hand, warm and reassuring, and the hair on Dean’s arm stands on end in response. Cas’ eyes flicks up to his and Dean’s heart stutters and skips before Cas wraps his fingers around his wrist and the heel of his hand and...Holy shit. 

Cas’ lips are warm and dry when they drag over the torn skin of the back of his hand. Dean’s skin sings in response as Cas’ eyes meet his through lowered lids. This is...Cas’ lips on his skin, the aching juxtaposition of tenderness and intensity that’s unique to Cas. Ozone crackles in the air and Dean’s dick is starting to take a definite interest in the proceedings. 

Cas lowers Dean’s hand away from his mouth, but doesn’t release it. “I’ll get the bandages,” he tells Dean. His mouth is still close enough to Dean’s hand that he can feel the impression of lips brushing against the back of his hand. 

“Yeah,” Dean finally says, mouth dry. “Yeah, all right.” 

Cas lets his hand go and Dean tries not to mourn the loss of warmth and connection. Cas glances back over his shoulder before he leaves the room, his eyes heavy and indecipherable. Every part of Dean yearns for him, every part of Dean aches to go closer, but something in his head whispers not yet. So Dean licks at his dry lips and swallows that desire. It lingers in his belly, burning low and fierce in the pit of his gut. 

He knew it long ago, maybe from the first moment that Cas smiled at him, soft and sweet and human and said _Well we had an appointment_, more gentle than anything in the apocalypse had a right to be. He’d felt it then, the surety of the world crumbling, the knowledge of _Oh. This is it then_. He’d known then, that while there might be other people, that Cas was It. He knew that he was never going to get over Cas, never quite manage to wash him out of his system. Years later, and that feeling hasn’t disappeared. If anything, it’s grown deeper in him, like taproots burrowing deep into the soil, searching for a hidden wellspring. 

"I need a shower," Dean says, continuing his journey to the stairs. Cas hums in acknowledgment, but the warmth of his smile follows Dean all the way upstairs. 

\--

“I know what you’re going to call the cat,” Dean says later, over breakfast. Cas hums in interest, one eyebrow quirking upwards in a wordless question. “Come on, you know. A tiny little bitch who sluts it up with you and tries her best to kill me?” Cas’ eyebrow creeps up further towards his hairline. “Her name’s Meg,” Dean says, with no small amount of pride. 

Cas’ expression sours and Dean doesn’t broach the topic anymore that morning. However, he does notice Cas calling the cat Meg, and a day later, the name just sticks. 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185495911@N02/49060783177/in/datetaken/)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	15. and a roof overhead

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Improvements on the house continue. Every night, Dean flops into bed, pleasantly exhausted, his mind humming idly over what other projects they can undertake. He suspects that the house is a magnum opus which will never be fully completed. No doubt he’ll always be able to find something else to work on or change, but at this rate he’s going to be finished with his initial list within two months. 

He would be lying if he said that Cas’ sharpened interest wasn’t a factor in his work ethic. Turns out that Cas has an eye for lighting, and his suggestions, while sometimes odd, are often inspired. There’s also some weird, leftover, angelic ability to calculate angles and lines, which comes in handy when they’re trying to redesign the porch and sections of the house. After the third time Cas finishes an equation in his head, Dean doesn’t drop his jaw in amazement, but it’s a close thing. Cas just looks at him with his nonchalant, bemused expression, like he can’t possibly understand why Dean would be so impressed. Dean doesn’t bother to tell him that most humans can’t solve differential equations in their heads, let alone high school dropouts. 

And normally, Dean would be a little irritated with the prodigy living under his roof. He’s not necessarily ashamed of his life, or what he had to do during it--hunting’s in his blood and he’s saved more people than most members of the US military--but it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t get a little stifled under the collar when Sam inadvertently reminds him that he got into Stanford on a full ride. But Cas either doesn’t understand or just doesn’t care how humans value higher education as he runs roughshod over the currents of human worthiness. Add that to the fact that he looks so goddamn impressed whenever Dean shows him how to do something new. Whether it be how to shape and carve a banister, strip and paint a room, or replace a set of windows, the admiration in Cas’ eyes is clear. It would take a better man than Dean not to get slightly drunk on all that attention. Dean never claimed to be a good man. 

With both of them working daily on the house, improvements occur in leaps and bounds. With the allowance given to him by Minnie as well as a few carefully placed purchases using purloined credit cards, Dean stocks his kitchen with gleaming new appliances, ones that can handle heavy usage. Top of the line pans hang from the ceiling hooks. Dean managed to find a hell of a deal on countertops, made better by the fact that he and Cas cut them themselves. They even finished the dining set. Now a farmhouse style table sits in their kitchen, and Dean gets to admire it every time he sits down for a meal. 

Minnie stops by one afternoon, two weeks after Meg makes herself a permanent addition to the house. Dean watches and seethes as the little tramp rubs against Minnie’s ankles, mewing softly for attention. “Aren’t you a delight?” Minnie coos, scratching behind Meg’s ears. Dean swears that Meg throws a smirk in his direction. 

He leads Minnie on a tour around the house, pointing out the newly finished stairs and banister. Cas is putting the final touches on the banister today and covering the finished product with a last coat of paint. He looks up as Dean rounds the corner and offers the both of them a small smile before returning to work. 

Dean’s willing to leave it at that, but Minnie stops in her tracks. There’s something disapproving in her immobility. “Are you not going to introduce us?” Minnie asks, steel in her voice. 

Dean flushes as Cas looks back up, one eyebrow quirking curiously up underneath his fringe. “Minnie, this is Cas. Cas, this is Minnie. She’s the lady who owns the house.” 

Cas jerks his chin up in understanding. “Pleasure,” he says, his low voice rumbling through the foyer. “Thank you for everything.” 

Minnie scoffs. “Nonsense. You two are doing me a favor by fixing this place up. You should have seen it before Dean got his hands on it.” 

Cas slants his eyes over towards Dean. The shine of pride in them, even from this distance, is unmistakable, and it turns Dean’s hard, jagged edges gooey. “Yes, Dean’s extremely talented.” 

He’s blushing like a teenage girl and that is just unacceptable. “Minnie, do you want something to drink?” Dean’s voice, a little too loud, echoes around the entryway. Cas smiles again, something private and pleased. Dean catches sight of it just before Cas ducks his head and returns to painting. 

Minnie glances between the two of them. “Of course, but only if your handsome friend joins us.” 

Cas’ head cocks at that, but he doesn’t deviate from his task. Bolstered by the thought of that smile, the praise, and the warm afternoon sunlight coming through the windows, Dean takes a chance. “Hey handsome, did you hear that?” Cas’ head lifts at that, the edges of his eyes surprised. “Come on down and join us.” 

“Of course.” Cas gives one last look to the banister before he descends the stairs. Possibly drunk, definitely reckless, Dean reaches out and flicks the edge of Cas’ hair, shoving it off his forehead. A faint pink flush chases itself across the top of Cas’ cheeks and Dean grins at the sight of it. He likes this Cas, so assured yet so easily flustered. 

Contrary to Sam’s opinion, Dean can make drinks that aren’t alcoholic. In fact, he makes a mean glass of lemonade, if he does say so himself. It’s the perfect blend of tart and sweet, enough to pucker the lips, but not enough to linger on the tongue. He leads Cas and Minnie out to the newly refurbished veranda. He and Cas spent a few days replacing rotten boards and sanding down the existing ones to make a porch that’s sturdy and safe. 

From the start, Minnie’s focused on Cas. Dean’s not jealous. They’ve known each other for a few months now, and there’s only so many different ways that he can talk about home improvements without sounding like a poorly funded HGTV show. Cas, on the other hand, provides a huge wealth of conversation. 

“So what did you used to do before you came here?”

Cas’ eyes flick to Dean, just for a moment. Dean shrugs. “I used to travel a lot,” Cas says, after a pause so short that Dean’s sure he’s the only one who notices. “I helped people when I could. Tried to make a difference.” 

Minnie nods. If she’s suspicious or upset from the vagueness of his answer, then she doesn’t say anything. She just takes a sip of her lemonade and watches him over the rim of the cup. “Where did you travel?”

Cas’ eyes light in interest. “All over,” he answers, leaning forward ever so slightly. 

Dean listens as Cas describes visiting mountains and prairies, deserts and oceans. If Minnie thinks that it’s a little outrageous for one man to have visited the Outback as well as the rainforest, then she doesn’t say anything, even when Cas starts describing the exact nature of the northern lights. 

Dean sits on the porch and sips his lemonade, forgotten by both parties. He doesn’t mind. At the moment, he finds more pleasure in watching Cas interact with Minnie. There’s a particular look that people get when they fall under Cas’ spell, and Minnie has it right now. It’s something a little starry-eyed, a little incredulous, tender and indulgent. Dean knows it well. It’s the same look that’s been plastered over his face for the last twelve years. 

As he watches the two of them together, something warm glows and rises in his chest. It feels like he’s suffocating, but he doesn’t have any trouble breathing. He’s felt this before--watching Cassie talk about the leads she tracked down, listening to Lisa plan a weekend at the lake--but never to this extent, to where it feels like his whole purpose in life was to be a container for this feeling. It’s pure, unfiltered light and joy shoved into the fragile confines of his mortal body. It pulses through him and fills him, until it’s all he can think or breathe. 

Dean’s lived with this feeling for years, doubting it every step of the way. It couldn’t be love. Love was for other people, better people, people who didn’t have an aching pit inside of them, desperate to swallow any hint of joy or happiness. Some fundamental part of Dean was broken, had been broken since he was a kid. He wasn’t capable of love, at least not the kind that demanded the entirety of heart and soul, the kind that Cas deserved. 

But here, on the porch, watching Cas describe dawn on the savannah to an enraptured Minnie, Dean finally embraces it. Love so strong that it smooths away his rough edges, love so pure that he can almost forget everything he did and saw to get to this point. He’s weak, he’s so damn weak for this man, and he’s thrilled with the idea of it. 

Dean only jumps back into the conversation when Minnie puts a direct question to him. “So what do you think you’ll do once the repairs are complete?”

Dean startles as hope curls through his heart. He’d thought that after the repairs were completed that he would somehow be asked to move on. To stay, to have a permanent place, away from the minutiae of hunting, to maybe give some others a bit of comfort…

“I thought that maybe I could set up a few rooms,” Dean says. The plan blooms in his head like it was always there. Perhaps it was. “Maybe make this place into something like a waystation? I have a lot of friends who could use something like this, a place to recharge and maybe find some kind of peace.” 

There are so many hunters out there who could use a safe haven. Dean’s mind goes to Claire, still traveling the backroads, looking for cases. He thinks about Sam and Jack, who might need someplace permanent to call their own one day. He thinks about Cas, and about the peace that’s struggling to settle on him. 

“Yeah,” Dean continues, increasingly more and more secure in his conviction. “I think that’s the plan.” 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Castiel enjoys humans. He always has. It was one of the many reasons his superiors always found fault with him. 

Minnie Gareth exemplifies everything that is wonderful about humanity. Talking to her, Castiel discovers that she is naive, in the way all humans are, yet not without her own brand of wisdom. She is curious, patient, and compassionate. As he tells her about his various travels (with certain omissions made--he certainly doesn’t tell her that not only has he seen the Rocky Mountains, he was there when they were formed), he can’t shake the feeling that he’s learning from her. 

Before Minnie leaves, she takes one of his hands between both of her frail, liver-spotted hands. Castiel notes the arthritis in the bones, the dry, smooth skin. She puts slight pressure on his hand and he carefully squeezes back, well aware of the delicacy of her body. A tinge of sadness shoots through him as the full curse of humanity hits him. Despite her intelligence and wisdom, despite her kindness and humor, Minnie Gareth is destined for death. As all humans are. As he is. 

It’s a sobering realization, one which Castiel tries to push to the back of his mind. The rest of Minnie’s visit passes in a blur while Castiel tries to maintain an aura of normality. When Minnie leaves, he stands beside Dean and bids her farewell, after making plans for lunch next week. Making plans is something which humans love to do. It’s a way of exerting control over an unstable world, a way of making the ephemeral permanent. Castiel appreciates the hopefulness in the gesture. 

After Minnie’s car disappears down the drive, Dean claps him on the back. “You ready to finish?” Castiel nods, but watches the empty driveway for a moment longer. Dean stays with him, but doesn’t allow him much time to reflect before jostling his shoulder. “Come on handsome. We’ve got work to do.” 

There’s that word again. _Handsome_. Castiel knows what it means--_good-looking, well-formed, especially when referring to a man_. It’s hearing the word coming from Dean’s mouth that’s distracting. 

He knows what he wants, but he’s not sure that’s possible anymore, if it ever was. Sometimes, he thinks that there’s hope--he’ll catch a glimpse of Dean’s eyes, and there’s heat there, a sharp interest focused entirely on him. But then Dean will turn cold again, his temper turning jagged as he pushes Castiel away yet again. Hope withers, until it’s easier to deny its existence altogether. 

Castiel wants, with a fierceness forbidden to angels. For years he’s felt the sharp bite of desire, ever since his grace wrapped around Dean’s soul in perdition. It was so bright. Castiel had seen the power and glory of heaven at its most incandescent, and yet it somehow paled to seeing that flicker of light in the midst of the darkness. And then there was Dean himself. 

Dean Winchester was prickly, brash, and crude. He drank too much and delighted in his own inequity. He could be cruel, sometimes thoughtlessly and sometimes deliberately. He was difficult to know, even more difficult to love. And yet. 

Castiel knows all the synonyms and definitions of love in all the languages of humans, but he still can’t find one that comes close to describing what he feels. It’s yearning and peace, pain and hunger. It’s the journey and destination, and sometimes it hurts so badly that he can’t breathe with the agony of it all. And yet, there’s beauty in the pain, majesty that stretches beyond Castiel and into the atoms and molecules of the universe. 

In the simplest terms, he loves Dean. He keeps the knowledge tucked close to his chest, where it’s private and safe. He examines it from time to time, just to make sure nothing’s changed. It hasn’t, not in years. In fact, the feeling has only grown, expanding exponentially since he started living in the house with Dean. He loves Dean Winchester, with all of his ineffective, mortal heart. 

The knowledge crashes down on him. Minnie, Sam, himself, Dean...One day, they’ll all die. One day he might have to live in a world without Dean. 

He’s quiet for the rest of the day. He’s not ignorant of the worried looks Dean keeps shooting him when he thinks that Castiel’s back is turned, but he doesn’t know what to say to ease his worrying. Dean has had over forty years to come to terms with his inevitable mortality. Castiel has had less than eight months. And what comfort can Dean give him? They’ve been given chance after chance, reprieved time and again from the jaws of Death, to the point where they’ve disturbed the fabric of the universe itself. To ask to be delivered from the inevitable just because he wants more time...it stretches beyond hubris. 

By eleven o’clock, Castiel’s thoughts are still troubled. Dean long since passed the troubled phase. Currently, he’s nursing poorly concealed panic. Castiel can feel it in the tension of Dean’s body next to him on the couch, see it in the tick of his jaw, steady as a metronome. 

It reminds Castiel of his first weeks in the house, when he and Dean passed by each other like ghosts. He hates it, hates that he’s the reason yet again for the clenched fist resting on Dean’s knee, but his emotions are too thick and complex to give voice to. 

Finally, Castiel breaks. “I think that I’m going to bed,” he announces to the stillness of the room. His voice sounds too rough for the small, quiet space and Dean actually flinches at the interruption. 

Despite his announcement, Castiel remains on the couch for a moment longer. Dean’s heat is still a comfort to him, one that he would leech off of forever, were he allowed. Castiel’s skin still remembers the sensation of Dean next to him and he aches for an encore. He wants to trace the line of Dean’s knee, barely visible under the thick fabric of his jeans, but he’s frozen. 

Castiel gets up from the couch and starts the long walk upstairs. Dean’s eyes follow him until he’s out of sight. Castiel feels the weight of them on his back, but Dean never moves to follow. 

\---

Three hours later, Castiel turns over to his other side. His shoulder protests the move with a sharp twinge of pain, and Castiel huffs in irritation. He’s tried dozens of positions, but none of them provide any relief. In spite of exhaustion weighing down his body, sleep remains elusive. Every time Castiel closes his eyes, his brain begins humming with activity, which negates the possibility of any kind of rest. 

He stretches out his legs towards the end of the mattress, accidentally jostling Meg in the process. With an unhappy yowl, she swipes at his feet before jumping off the bed. He doesn’t blame her. It’s the third time that he’s inadvertently kicked her. No doubt she’s grown tired of it. 

Castiel rolls onto his back and stares at the blank space of the ceiling. In the dark, he can’t make out any distinguishing features, not that he thinks that would help. A thin breeze creeps in through the crack in his window and drifts over his skin. The faint sounds of insects and the forest accompanies the breeze, so foreign from the industrial sounds of the highway and bunker to which he grew accustomed. 

After another fruitless bout of tossing and turning, Castiel finally sighs and throws off the blankets. Obviously there’s no rest to be found for him tonight, so he might as well do something productive with his time. A few days ago, he noticed a book downstairs that looked interesting. Now is as good a time as any to start. 

On his way downstairs, Castiel passes by Dean’s door. He can’t help but look. No hint of light shines through the bottom crack. No doubt, Dean is sleeping like a regular human. Castiel bites back his sigh and starts the journey downstairs. The stairs no longer creak, but Castiel still pads down on his tiptoes. Years of hunting have left Dean a light sleeper and Castiel has no wish to disturb him. 

Once he reaches the first floor landing, Castiel pauses. He can still hear the muted sounds of the television coming from the living room, and the soft glow of a lamp filters through the first floor. Curious, Castiel creeps from the stairs and into the living room. 

Dean is still stretched out on the couch, a thin blanket thrown over his lap. The television throws faint blue shadows over his face, while the lamp gives off a dim glow in the corner of the room. He’s watching the show with a vague level of disinterest. Even late at night, even with the awful electric lighting, he’s lovely. Castiel could lose hours watching Dean, cataloguing the steady rise and fall of his chest, the shift of his expressions, the way that his jaw stretches in a yawn. 

It’s mid-yawn that Dean catches sight of Castiel standing in the corner. Immediately, his disinterest disintegrates, replaced by shock and the immediate aggression that only a life on the run can bring. “Jesus Cas!” Dean barks as he bolts upright. He places a hand over his heart, massaging through his shirt. “The hell are you doing?”

Dean’s words are harsh and delivered with a glare, but Castiel doesn’t take offense. Dean’s never taken well to any sudden shock. After a moment, Dean’s shoulders slump and he rubs his palm over his face. “Seriously Cas. The hell are you doing up?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Castiel answers, walking further into the room. “It’s late.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but the expression lacks malice. “Yeah. I’m aware.” Castiel watches Dean pick at a small hole in the knee of his jeans. “I’m just not tired.” 

Castiel lifts his shoulder in a shrug. It’s a strangely eloquent, purely human, gesture. “I wish I could say the same.” He steps forward again, and Dean shifts automatically to allow Castiel room on the couch next to him. 

Dean speaks around a barely stifled yawn. “So go to sleep.” 

A wry smile crosses Castiel’s face. Dean makes it sound so easy. He doesn’t reply, though Dean is obviously expecting him to. Instead, he sits down on the end of the couch, close enough to brush against Dean, but not close enough to crowd him. 

Under the cover of darkness, Castiel sneaks sideways looks at Dean. Even though he claims he doesn’t feel tired, Dean looks exhausted. Castiel wants to reach out and rub away the dark circles underneath his eyes, wrap himself around Dean like a blanket until he loses his hunted posture. He knows that this is his fault. Dean had been sleeping so well and now…

“I don’t like sleeping,” blurts out of his mouth before Castiel can even hope to stop it.

His confession shatters the quiet atmosphere like a gunshot. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Dean stiffen. His hands stop their restless movement and freeze to his thighs. Dean releases his breath in a slow exhalation which screams of restraint. 

“Why?” Dean finally asks. It’s the question that humans ask the most and it’s the one that Castiel rarely has an answer for. It’s just his luck that this time he does have an answer. 

“Angels don’t sleep.” Castiel begins slowly, uncertain of how to explain the difficult tangle of humanity and cosmos. As expected Dean rolls his eyes, but he also twirls his fingers in a go-on gesture. “For centuries...longer. Long before humans recorded time, I was there. And during all that time, there was never a moment that I wasn’t awake and aware.” 

Humans, as he learned from seeing Sam tormented by his memories of the Cage, can only last for so long without the peace of sleep to rest their minds. Celestial wavelengths have no need of rest or anything that takes away from the mission. For eons, Castiel had no need of anything which would distract him from his purpose. But then...humanity. 

“Falling asleep...To me, it’s like dying. You just...you lay down and you force your body to stop moving. Your mind goes away, but your body keeps going, and you don’t have any control over what your mind dredges up…” Under the weight of Dean’s eyes, Castiel almost falters, but he continues to scrape at the rawest points of himself. Dean at least deserves the truth. 

“Your mind keeps going on after you sleep. It pulls up the worst in your brain and replays it over and over again.” Castiel pauses because it’s very important that Dean understand this. “I’m very old Dean. There are many memories.” 

The flood covering the earth and listening to the cries of humans and animals alike as the water rose. Hearing the wails of Eygptian mothers as they cradled the lifeless bodies of their sons and husbands, the sounds of the dogs’ jaws crunching bone as they tore Jezebel limb from limb. The countless horrors of heaven and hell, inflicted on a helpless world. Hundreds of Leviathans, squirming through his vessel, ripping him apart piece by piece, until _Castiel_ was no more. Hearing the words _Dean Winchester is dead_ from Metatron’s smug lips. Seeing Dean’s eyes flash black. Feeling his grace rip away from him, leaving a raw, bloody wound in its place, like losing a limb. 

There are too many memories in his mind to be allowed free reign. 

“I don’t want to see them again. It’s too much to ask.” 

Dean doesn’t look at him. He keeps his eyes fixed on his clasped hands, held between his knees. Castiel doesn’t mention the resemblance to praying; Dean wouldn’t appreciate it. 

“I can’t imagine what it’s like, having all of that in your head.” Dean sounds wearier than a man of his age should sound. Every bit of fatigue coursing through Castiel’s body is present in Dean’s voice. Castiel aches for him. “I’m fucked up with just forty-two years, so really. I can’t imagine a hundred let alone…” Dean’s eyes rake over him, “however the hell old you are.” 

Dean’s asked him, several times, for a definitive answer as to his age. Castiel doesn’t know. He was aware before humans thought to measure time in years. He was a presence before humans walked the earth. _Very old_ is usually the answer he gives Dean. 

“You need to sleep Cas. You can’t…” Dean sighs and drops his head into his palms. “You’re human and humans need sleep. If it’s really that bad, then there’s meds we can look into getting you. There’s stuff that’ll knock you out so hard that you won’t have to worry about dreams.” 

“I thought that you didn’t approve of medications.” 

An impatient, irritated click sounds in Dean’s throat. “It’s not...look, it’s like anything else, right? If you’re sick, you take some pills. I’m allergic to your hellbeast, so I take some pills. If you can’t sleep, then...It’s only the habit-forming stuff that I’m scared of.” Dean finally looks at him. In the low light, his expression is shadowed, but Castiel can see still the gleam of his eyes. “Cas, this is serious.” 

Castiel wonders how much that even that admission cost Dean. He knows well how much vulnerability can hurt. He’s learned that it takes a particular sort of courage to peel emotional layers away and lay oneself bare. 

“I’m tired,” Castiel confesses, honesty for honesty. The fight leeches from his body as he says it, until only exhaustion is left. 

“Yeah, I bet.” At first, Castiel thinks that might be the end of their conversation, but, as always, Dean manages to surprise him. Dean’s hand, large and capable, spreads out over the knobbly bones of his knee. The weight and warmth bleeds through his thin sleep pants and spreads through to the rest of his body. The heat and pressure spread honey-warm through him, and Castiel’s shoulders slump. With every second, he becomes more and more boneless. He can track the degeneration of his muscles to the small movement of Dean’s thumb against the bone of his knee. He loses himself in the contact and lets it become his world, until he’s leaning against the solidity of Dean’s body. 

Hardly daring to believe his luck, Castiel allows his head to fall down onto Dean’s shoulder. Dean is sturdy underneath him, never complaining as Castiel leans his weight on him. Dean takes the added weight and doesn’t even threaten to buckle underneath it. 

Castiel doesn’t know how long they stay like that--perhaps a few minutes, maybe a few hours. A few days? It’s not the rest that his body craves, but it’s almost as good. Castiel thinks that he might be able to substitute the two if needed. He’s just dozing off into a half-waking, half-dreaming state when Dean’s voice rumbles out from underneath him. 

“You can say no if you want, but come upstairs with me?” 

Castiel hums softly, half in curiosity, half in displeasure. Going upstairs means moving, means losing whatever sort of peace he’s managed to find here. 

“You can say no,” Dean rushes to say. In his half-dreaming state, it takes Castiel a long moment to pick up on the insecurity in Dean’s voice. Once he does he could kick himself for being the cause of it. “But it’d be nice if you...if you came with me. I...” Dean’s shoulder moves underneath him with the force of his swallow. “It’d be nice to have someone else close by.” A shiver shakes its way through Dean’s body. Castiel is reminded of that weightless moment before flight, when a body hangs in the air before gravity takes hold. The wings have to stretch out and-- “I always sleep better with someone nearby,” Dean says, small and honest and raw. 

The words seep into Castiel’s brain in a series of images. Him, walking upstairs with Dean, and following him into his room. The two of them stretched out in Dean’s mattress. The heavy, stifling sleep that he’d found before in Dean’s bed descending upon him like a blanket. 

“Let’s go,” Castiel murmurs, pulling himself away. Perhaps he should demur, perhaps he should show hesitation or reluctance, but he’s so tired. His body screams for sleep, no matter how many problems his brain has with it. 

As they walk up the stairs, they maintain a careful distance of a few inches. Castiel still feels the space between them crackle with electric energy. He’s less than an arm’s reach away from Dean, close enough that Dean’s overshirt brushes against Castiel’s arm when he shifts. Tremendous potential presses against his ribs, climbs through his throat, and dances down to his fingertips. Castiel would tremble with the power if he weren’t frozen by the same instincts that keeps rabbits and fawns immobile in the face of predators. 

Dean flips the covers back on the bed before he pauses. Cas stares at him, not understanding why he’s stopped or what put the soft pink flush on his cheeks. “Cas,” Dean finally says, addressing the clean sheets instead of him. “Can you…” His hands make a movement towards his belt and Castiel understands. 

“Of course.” He walks towards the window and cranes his head to catch sight of the stars above the house. He tries not to listen to the sounds of Dean’s belt slithering through his belt loops or the sound of Dean’s jeans hitting the floor. The bedside lamp flicks on and immediately after, the overhead light flips off, plunging the room into semi-darkness. In the window’s reflection he can catch glimpses of Dean moving around the room, a fair-skinned blur in the filmy glass. All moisture flees from his mouth, and his heart, which had been settling into a reliable pulse, jerks into a frenetic rhythm. 

His ears catch the sound of blankets rustling and the soft creak of a mattress. Dean’s sigh is louder than all of that, but his voice is soft when he says, “Cas. You can...It’s ok.” 

When he turns to face Dean, he almost laughs at the sight. Dean has the blanket pulled up over his shoulders. Sticky, humid heat spreads through the room. A persistent film of sweat clings to Castiel’s skin and dampens his shirt. Despite the small beads of sweat crowding around his hairline, Dean keeps the blanket high. His eyes shift around Castiel’s outline, all the while refusing to meet his. 

As he takes in the situation, Castiel’s stomach sinks. Dean might have offered, but he can’t even look at Castiel. The taste of pity hangs heavy on his tongue and Castiel wants no part of it. “This was a bad idea. I’m going to go back to my room. Thank you Dean.” 

He turns towards the door but doesn’t make it more than a few steps before a warm hand wraps around his wrist. “No, shit Cas, I’m sorry. Come here.” 

With a gentle hand between his shoulders, Dean leads Castiel back to the bed. Before he quite knows what’s happened, Castiel is stretched out along the mattress with Dean next to him. One deft movement of Dean’s wrist flicks the blanket overtop him. As Dean shifts, the mattress dips with his weight, but Castiel doesn’t turn his head to look. Some things are easier done without the added burden of sight. 

“I meant it,” Dean says to the quiet. “I always sleep better with someone else around. The first weeks we spent in the bunker...sometimes I would get out of bed and walk down the hall just so I could hear Sam breathing.” 

“And you complained about me watching you sleep,” Castiel murmurs. 

Dean laughs shortly. “Yeah, I know. It’s creepy as hell. But I just wanted you to know that I understand what it’s like. Not being able to sleep sometimes.” The click of Dean’s swallow is loud in the silence of the room. “I know about nightmares.” 

At that, Cas dares to look over towards Dean. The lamplight and moonlight washes over his bare shoulders and the freckles on them stand out in sharp relief. He’s lovely, so much so that he makes the breath catch in Castiel’s throat. 

“Sometimes, it’s the quiet,” Castiel whispers. “It’s so still out here. In the bunker, there were always the pipes and the electricity running, and the hotels I picked were always close to the road, so I could hear the cars, but here...There’s nothing, sometimes, just me and that’s...”

Castiel doesn’t like the quiet. He had centuries of the host humming in the back of his head. To go from that to this smothering silence crushes him. 

He doesn’t expect the expression on Dean’s face to fall, or for him to turn his head towards the door, away from Castiel. “Fucking figures,” he mutters, his voice dark and resentful. Castiel pushes himself up on his elbow. 

“It’s not always bad,” he says, perhaps more forcefully than the situation calls for. “It’s just...different is all. Something that I need to get used to.” He leaves the next words unsaid, though he hopes Dean can pick up on the meaning. _Something that I want you to help me get used to_. 

Dean flips over onto his side, facing Castiel. His eyes are bleak and lost when he asks, “Is this helping? Is _any_ of this helping?” 

Castiel’s heart breaks, just a little. “It all helps,” he answers. Before he can stop himself, his hand snakes across the mattress to wrap around Dean’s hand. “What you do--the repairs, the meals, even Meg...it all helps.” Castiel licks his suddenly dry lips. “But some days…” Castiel breathes, in and out, but it doesn’t erase the pain in his chest or the soft worry in Dean’s eyes. “Some days I wake up and it just...it _hurts_, and I don’t know why and I don’t know how to fix it. I just...I don’t want to be like this. I want to be what I was, what you--” Castiel cuts himself off sharply, afraid that he might have revealed too much about himself or too much about Dean. “I don’t want to be broken,” he finishes, the words coming out in a fragmented whisper. 

“Hey. Hey. Cas. No.” Dean shifts his hand so that his fingers slot into the empty spaces between Castiel’s. “You’re not broken, ok?” When Castiel doesn’t respond, Dean squeezes, hard enough to force eye contact. “You’re not broken,” Dean repeats. With the emphasis he puts on the words, Castiel can almost believe that he means it. “It’s just...it’s just being human, ok? It sucks and it’s forever and I’m sorry that you have to do it at all, let alone with me—“

It’s Castiel’s turn to squeeze, and he does, so hard that the small bones of Dean’s fingers creak together. “It was my choice to stay. Every day, I choose to be here.”

Something _breaks_ in Dean’s face, but it’s the good kind of breaking, the kind that comes back stronger than before. He swallows and rubs his thumbs over Castiel’s knuckles. “Yeah?” He asks, small and vulnerable. 

“Please,” Castiel says. “Please, can we sleep?” 

Dean’s eyes soften and he never lets go of Castiel’s hand. “Yeah Cas. Yeah, we can sleep.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	16. one thing for sure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long road upwards.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next morning, Dean wakes easily. His body has the loose, sated feeling that only comes with a good night’s sleep and he luxuriates in it, stretching his limbs out underneath the blankets and sighing with satisfaction as his muscles stretch. Even better, he wakes with the particular warmth that comes from sharing his space with another body. Best of all, it’s not just any body that he’s with. 

Dean’s head lolls to the side. Cas is still asleep, his breath rattling in his chest and the back of his throat. On any other person he would call the sound snoring but it seems undignified to accuse Cas of snoring. 

Cas’ face crinkles as another rumble rasps through his chest and out his mouth. Dean props himself up on an elbow and watches, just for a moment. He can’t escape what Cas said, or the still-present wave of guilt that comes with it. 

He knew that Cas was struggling with the loss of his grace. It would have taken a fucking idiot to miss it. Dean doesn’t blame him in the slightest--to identify as one of the universe’s most powerful beings for your millennia long existence, only to be shoved down into the dirt and muck with the rest of humanity, to have the part of you that makes you you, ripped out...Dean can barely wrap his head around the horror of it. 

Dean aches with helplessness. Cas is hurting still, and there’s nothing that Dean can do. Logically, he knows that he has no control, but it still stung to hear the fear and resignation in Cas’ voice. Dean can empathize. If his brain can furnish such hellish nightmares with only forty-two years of fuel, imagine how much worse it can be when it has centuries of material to draw from. 

But Cas is sleeping peacefully now, and damn if that doesn’t make a glow of pride rise in Dean’s chest. It’s a covetous, selfish feeling--he’d be lying if he said that he hadn’t thought about how to get Cas into his bed. This isn’t really what he had in mind, but when it comes to Cas, he’s long since learned that he’ll take whatever scraps the former angel is willing to throw his way. 

Dean rolls out of bed, careful not to disturb Cas. He means to walk away, he really does, but the sight of Cas, limbs artlessly spread across the mattress, is arresting. He’s never been the possessive type, but something primal curls around Dean’s chest at the sight of Castiel sprawled out in his bed. 

Dean’s hand ghosts out to ruffle the tips of Cas’ fringe. Cas sighs at the faint touch before a small smile spreads across his face. Dean feels like the Grinch on Christmas morning, heart swelling until it cracks the mold of his chest. “Keep on sleeping sweetheart,” Dean murmurs, grabbing a change of clothes as he heads towards the bathroom. 

Once outside his room, he runs into the hellbeast. Meg’s eyes glow in the darkened hallway as she creeps up behind him. Dean closes the door before she has a chance to get into his room and she glares at him before giving him a resentful yowl. 

“Sorry you witch,” Dean says, without much remorse at all, “but there’s no way in hell you’re going to get your stench all over my blankets.” Cas might find it cute to fall asleep with a cat on top of his chest, but Dean appreciates being able to breathe through the night, thank you very much. 

He walks away from Meg, her angry meows echoing in his ears as he enters into the bathroom. No doubt she’s planning some sort of revenge against him, but he’ll take his chances. 

It’s almost unfamiliar, the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth as he starts the shower. His cheek muscles have never gotten the chance to exercise their full potential. It would be nice to see if he can make his cheeks hurt with the force of his smiles. For one of the first times since retiring, Dean thinks that maybe that’s a possibility. 

—

Cas stumbles down to breakfast a full hour later, still yawning and knuckling sleep out of his eyes. “Morning sunshine,” Dean greets him, ready with a cup of coffee that he pushes into Cas’ hands. Cas grunts at him, but it’s a mild, friendly sound. “I thought that maybe today we could work on one of the second floor bedrooms?”

Cas grunts again, but that’s fine. Dean’s learned that he’s rarely verbal before finishing his first cup of coffee. The quirk is so mundane and delightfully human, that Dean doesn’t bother teasing Cas like he would Sam. “Anyway gorgeous, there’s eggs and bacon whenever you’re ready.” 

The endearment drops from Dean’s lips before he notices. Once it’s out there, there’s no taking it back, but Dean’t not sure that he would. Cas certainly doesn’t seem to mind--his fingers twitch on the handle of the mug and his head makes a tiny convulsive jerk, but other than that, he doesn’t have any reaction. 

Twelve years and they’ve just gotten to the point of pet names. It’s the slowest burn that Dean’s ever heard of, but it’s worth it, _god_, it’s worth it, to see the shiver chase across Cas’ shoulders as he ghosts his fingers over the fine hairs at the back of Cas’ neck. 

\---

The day passes without incident. He and Cas start work on the bedroom. They spend the first half of the day cleaning out old furniture and deciding what should be scrapped and what can be salvaged. Cas, it turns out, has a good eye for refurbishing old pieces, and he thinks that they can do something with the dresser. Dean agrees and they drag it down the stairs, grunting with the effort of lifting the heavy piece. 

It’s a perfect opportunity to witness Cas in action. Dean bashes his fingers into the wall more than once while he’s watching the strain of Cas’ arms or the way that his back ripples underneath the thin material of his t-shirt. Dean tries not to lust after Cas, at least not to the point of obviousness, but he thinks he can be forgiven as Cas tugs at the bottom of his shirt and wipes his forehead with the material. It would take a stronger man than Dean to look away. 

They set the dresser on the lawn. Dean straightens with a low sigh of relief before he scrubs at the sweat beading along his forehead. “You know we’re going to have to lift that back up the stairs, right?” he puffs, just to see the despairing look on Cas’ face as he looks towards the dresser. 

“Never mind, I changed my mind. Let’s just burn it.” 

“Nope. We went through all the trouble of dragging it downstairs, so now you have to finish it.” Dean manages a cheeky grin, even though his muscles and lungs scream for oxygen. Torturing Cas is its own special brand of entertainment. There’s something delightful about watching the varying degrees of irritation, resignation, and fondness cross his face. 

“Not today.” Cas tugs his shirt to wipe at his forehead, then winces when the damp fabric makes contact with his skin. “I need a shower,” he says. The words are hardly out of his mouth before he turns on his heel and walks back to the house. 

Dean watches him go, torn between exasperation and amusement. Cas might be human but he still retains his angelic bluntness. In a way it makes Dean jealous: he wishes that he could extract himself from situations with the same abruptness that Cas does. 

Plus, he really wants a shower. 

His phone jangles in his back pocket and Dean pulls it out. He looks with interest at the name flashing across the screen. Sam. 

“Hey bitch,” he greets, obnoxious and loud. 

“Hey jerk,” Sam says back, his voice easy and casual. “How’s domestic life treating you?”

“Hotter than hell up here, but it’s all good. What about you? You still showering? You’re not letting the kid go full hippie mode are you?”

“I don’t know, I was thinking about it. I’ve already got the hair.” 

“So where are you in the Summer of Love tour?”

Sam hums noncommittally, which sets off all sorts of alarms in Dean’s head. “Just stretching our legs. Saw Jody and Donna, and spent a week with Rowena while she tried to teach Jack a little spellwork. By the way--he’s hopeless. He can knock out an entire power grid with a flick of his pinky finger, but he can’t do a simple summoning spell without setting his eyebrows on fire.” 

Dean chuckles. He can’t remember him and Sam ever having talks just to ‘catch up’. There were terse updates on hunts when they split up and shouted arguments when they decided to take a break from each other. Never this relaxed banter. It’s another gift that retirement dumped in his lap, and one that Dean seizes whole-heartedly. 

“What’s up with you?”

Dean shrugs, despite his knowledge that Sam can’t see the gesture. “Nothing much, just finishing up renovations.” He rubs an idle hand over the top of the dresser. “Hey, speaking of, when are you going to get your lazy ass over here? You said that you were maybe headed over here, and that was like a month and a half ago.” 

“Yeah, about that.” 

“The hell do you mean about that?” Dean opens the back door and some of his irritation at Sam snaps at out at Meg as she attempts to make a run for the outdoors. “Get back! Get the fuck back!” He shakes a threatening toe at Meg. She retreats a paltry three steps while leveling him with an incredulous look. _Like you’d fucking dare_, her eyes say, plain as speech. 

“What? Dean, who are you--are you talking to _Cas_?” Sam’s voice is affronted, borderline offended, and Dean would laugh if it weren’t so far from the truth. 

“No, I’m not talking to Cas; he’s up in the shower.” Meg makes an aborted move for the door and when Dean toes her away from the door, she hisses at him. He matches the sound. In the background, Sam makes confused noises, so Dean hastens to explain, “It’s Cas’ damn hellbeast of a fucking cat. She keeps on trying to get outside and if she does then it’s going to take me at least forty-five minutes to get her back inside.” 

Sam’s confused noises turn to odd sputters. Finally he gets out, “Cas’..._cat_?”

Dean rolls his eyes and makes a face at Meg. Not that the cat can understand the complexities of human expressions, but there’s satisfaction in showing his pique. “Yeah Sam, the cat. I feed her two solid meals a day but she wants to act like she’s fucking starving, screaming her damn head off outside my door at two in the fucking morning--”

The choked sounds in the background are Sam’s attempts at smothering his laughter. “Something funny there, Samantha?”

“No, no, it’s fine, it’s all good,” and his brother is a dirty, rotten ass, one that Dean is going to beat senseless when he gets his hands on him next. “It’s just,” Sam can barely talk through his _ack ack ack_ of poorly suppressed laughter, “you and Cas have a cat?”

“_We_ don’t have a cat, _Cas_ has a cat.” Dean doesn’t know why the distinction is important, but it is. 

“Really?” Dean can just picture the smug little look on Sam’s face. He wants to wipe it off. With his fists. “That’s why she’s crying outside your door in the early hours of the morning?”

“It’s Cas’ damn cat,” Dean insists stubbornly, then, because Sam is doing his stupid mm-hmm hum that he does, he loses control of his mouth and snaps, “She’s looking for Cas, not me!”

He knows that he’s made a tactical error when Sam’s laughter stops abruptly and a crackling silence fills the other end of the line. “And why,” Sam asks, his tone carefully, horribly, blank, “would _Cas’_ cat be looking for _Cas_ outside _your_ bedroom?”

Heat that has nothing to do with the temperature floods through Dean’s body. With one question, Sam’s cut straight through to everything that Dean’s been trying to hide from himself and the rest of the world for the past twelve years. 

“Dean. Dean.” Sam’s voice is devoid of its former mocking lilt and now sounds only of concern. “It’s ok. I don’t...you know I don’t care, right?”

“Jesus, I know it’s not that. You friggin’ dirty hippie. Probably had a rainbow flag in your dorm room and painted ‘Ally’ over your nipples every Pride when you were in college.” Dean’s never worried about Sam’s opinion, at least not for that--Sam gets choked up over Hallmark commercials; he’s the last person that Dean would peg as homophobic. 

It was everything else that Dean worried about. In a hunter’s life to admit love is to admit weakness. To love something is to know fear, and Dean couldn’t afford that fear, not ever. Even now, when he thinks about him and Cas, especially in the him and Cas sense, a thrill of terror shudders through him. He can’t lose Cas. Not again. 

“You and Cas, huh?” Sam’s voice has a hint of smugness to it. Dean is so going to beat his ass the next time he sees him. “Dean, this is a good thing. You two...if you’ve both managed to pull your heads out from each other’s asses, you two really are good for each other.” 

Good for each other. Mornings filled with laughter, days spent in hard labor, but good labor. Seeing the results of their work and watching a home come together underneath their hands. Cas, asleep in his bed this morning, face wiped clean of concerns. Cas’ smile as he bumps his nose into Meg’s. The feel of Cas’ hair against his fingertips. The soft surprise on Cas’ face as Dean calls him _handsome_. 

_Good for each other_. 

“How are things between you? I know last we talked they weren’t…” 

“It’s fine,” Dean answers. The words come automatically, more from habit than conviction, but after a moment’s reflection, he’s amazed to find that he actually means them. “It’s good,” Dean modifies. 

“Yeah? Cas is ok?”

“I think so,” Dean answers, glancing up towards the stairs. The last thing he needs is Cas eavesdropping. “His stitches are out and he’s moving around all right. He just…He’s not been sleeping really well.” 

“Well, can you blame him? Guy spent millions of years being awake and now you’re asking him to sleep. Seems to reason that he would have some problems with it.” 

“He says it’s like being dead. The hell do I say to that?” 

Sam makes one of his too precious for this world sounds of distress. “I guess just...talk to him?” At Dean’s noise of dismay, Sam sighs. “Yeah, I know, you two are allergic to that. But seriously. Just sit him down and ask him how he’s doing. He probably needs to talk it out and it’s not like he can go to some random psychologist.” 

“It’s just, some days he’s good and he’s great and he laughs, but then other days I can’t get him to talk or hardly do anything. I don’t...we’re doing good, really good, and I don’t want to lose it.”

“Take it day by day,” Sam suggests, in an episode of Most Unhelpful Advice Ever. “I’m serious Dean,” he adds, at Dean’s snort. “Don’t think of it like a streak, just think of it as one good day. Then, wipe the slate clean for the next day. Make that one good too.” 

“Yeah, all right Dr. Phil. You want me to do that before or after we braid each other’s hair and write in our diaries?”

“Snark all you want, but you know that I’m right. You’ll thank me when...actually, you know what? I’m not even going to think about it.”

“You’ve got a dirty mind Sammy.” Dean laughs and some of the tension in his body leaks out, like air escaping from an over-filled balloon. 

“Whatever jerk. Just get your shit together.” A clicking noise transfers through the line and Dean recognizes the tick of Sam’s tongue against the roof of his mouth. It’s the sound that he always makes before he tells Dean something that he doesn’t want to hear. “It’s not that we don’t want to see you or that we don’t miss you. I just thought...If we were there, then it would be just like it was at the bunker and you two would never...I don’t know. Figure it out.” 

A million responses leap to Dean’s tongue. He likes being manipulated probably as much as the next person and this--this is pure Sam meddling. But...Sam’s not wrong. 

“Why Sammy, I didn’t know that you were moonlighting as OkCupid on the side.” There’s a bit more bite than necessary in Dean’s words and no doubt Sam hears it. He has the good grace to let it go without comment. 

“Whatever jerk. That’s where your mind went, not mine. I just wanted you to figure things out one way or the other so you could stop dancing around each other. It’s painful to watch at this point.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean scoffs. “Like you’re Mr. Suave.” 

“Do I need to remind you of that time in Topeka--”

“No. No. Ew. Please. Gross.” Dean thumbs over the ‘end call’ button. He and Sam swore long ago to never talk about Topeka. Ever.

Footsteps sound on the stairs, preceding Cas’ arrival. He’s still shower-damp, hair dripping down the back of his shirt as he peeks down the banister. “Who was that on the phone?” 

“Just Oprah Cas, don’t worry about it.”

Cas squints in the way that he has when he knows that Dean’s trying to pull a fast one on him. “Dean, I doubt that Oprah has time in her schedule to call you.” 

“Wow.” Dean rolls his eyes, just to see how Cas’ expression changes from nonplussed into bitchy. “Thank you Mr. Literal.” Cas’ expression is treading the line between ‘bitchy’ and ‘smitey’, so Dean hastens to explain. “It was Sam, just checking in to make sure everything’s all right. He says hi.” 

Cas makes a low noise of interest as he walks out into the room. “I wish I could have had a chance to talk to him. I miss him.” 

Dean squashes down the instinctual rise of jealousy that those words arouse and focuses instead on the slow drip of water from the tips of Cas’ hair. No one else gets to see that. That right there, the drop falling from his hair to darken the collar of his shirt? One hundred percent Dean’s. 

“Well, nothing’s stopping you from calling Gigantor yourself.” 

Cas shrugs and Dean would be lying if he said that he didn’t feel a little squirm of delight in the pit of his belly. “He’ll call again. Though I do wish that we heard from Jack more often. I don’t enjoy being out of contact with him for this long.” 

“Hey.” Dean doesn’t think about it as he wraps his arm around Cas’ shoulders. “The kid will be fine. He’s with Sam and you know if anything went wrong then Sam would call us in a heartbeat. Plus I think Rowena’s taken a shine to the little bugger.” 

To his surprise, Cas actually smiles. Not his normal smile, which always has a hint of sadness and nostalgia around the edges, but a bratty, smug, I know something you don’t, grin. If that look were on Sam’s face, it would piss Dean off. When it’s on Cas’, it perturbs him, but also sends a spike of delight through him. Anytime he witnesses something new from Cas, it never ceases to amaze him. 

“The hell are you grinning at, you weirdo?” Dean finally asks. A corresponding grin reaches his face when Cas’ smile widens. 

“I don’t think it’s _Jack_ that Rowena has a soft spot for,” Cas says, placing deliberate emphasis on Jack’s name. 

It takes Dean a moment, but when it hits, he screws his face up in mild horror. “You think that Rowena...and Sam?” Ew. Ew. Yuck. _Oh no_. Dean’s brain takes him on a trip of despair as it gleefully shows him images of Sam and Rowena holding hands, Sam staring soppily down at Rowena, Rowena looking at Sam like she wants to eat him alive... “Cas, goddammit, _why_?” 

Cas shrugs, but there’s still a self-satisfied aura about him as he heads into the kitchen. “I thought that you would want to know. As an elder brother.” 

Dean follows him, still reeling from the thought of his brother and Rowena-- “You know that she’s too old for him right? I mean, cougar doesn’t even begin to describe what she is! Not to mention--She’s Crowley’s _mom_! That’s..._he_ came out of _her_...Cas, _dammit_, don’t make that face, this isn’t funny!”

\---

He doesn’t choose to do so often, but when he wants to, Cas can _gloat_ like nobody’s business. 

He keeps it up through dinner and the movie Dean chooses at random that night. It’s a good thing that Dean doesn’t really care about the plot or characters, because if asked, he couldn’t describe either. He’s more concentrated on the pure satisfaction emanating from Cas’ every pore. 

Anyone who said that angels don’t have senses of humor would be wrong. 

They just have really shitty ones. 

Cas’ mood lasts all through the movie, up to the point when Dean’s jaw starts to ache with the force of holding in his yawns. When he glances at Cas, he can see a tell-tale heaviness to the other man’s eyelids, even though Cas’ eyes have the stubborn, wide set of those determined not to sleep. 

“I’m going upstairs,” Dean says, when he can’t hold it in anymore and yawns so wide that his jaw creaks. Cas hums, the sound coming from his chest instead of his throat, his attention more on the paperback in his lap than on Dean. Dean takes advantage of his momentary distraction to look, really look at Cas. 

He’s disheveled, but comfortably so. His shirt is a little too big and the neckline a little too loose, so much so that it gaps open and reveals the barest glimpse of the hollow of his collarbone. Cas is relaxed here, free in a way that he never was when he had his grace. As an angel, he was always on the wrong side of impenetrable, always just out of reach, aloof. Dean loved Castiel, would have loved him even if he never had the chance to really touch Cas. But now that Cas is within reach, now that he sleeps, and yawns, and laughs? 

Dean loves him, with a hopeless, wild joy.

“Are you coming?” he asks, pushing off the couch and stretching out his stiff joints. Cas looks up at him and blinks, cocking his head to the side in the way that he means that he’s still processing the words. Then, without a word, Cas gets up off the couch and follows him. 

Dean walks up the stairs, excited in a way that he’s never gotten to experience before. He’s never had the pleasure of turning in together with someone else. Sure, he and Lisa slept in the same bed, but she was always in bed long before him. They never went through the bedtime rituals together, never elbowed each other out of the way at the sink so that they could spit their toothpaste foam into the basin. 

Cas wipes his face and swishes water in his mouth. It looks like stalling, and Dean understands why when they walk out into the hall. Both of their doors are open, leaving them with an unmistakable choice. Dean says nothing and waits for Cas to choose. 

He’d be lying if he said that his heart didn’t sink when Cas turns to go into his own room. 

Dean slides into his bed. Devoid of Cas’ warmth, it’s too big. He feels adrift, lost in the mess of sheets and blankets. He ignores the fact that he picks a certain side, ignores how his hand stretches out. 

The sense of fatigue and peace he had downstairs is long vanished. The memory foam mattress offers little support or comfort and Dean knows that it’s going to be a long time before he manages to fall asleep. He sighs and rolls over onto his stomach, punching a frustrated fist into his pillow. 

He’s so caught up in his own spiraling misery that he misses the soft sound of his door opening (none of the hinges in the house creak anymore, not after a dedicated morning’s work of him and Cas going through the house with a can of WD-40). He doesn’t miss the sudden shadow thrown over his sleeping frame. A lifetime of paranoia has Dean flipping over to face the door, his hand groping for a gun that isn’t there. He stops once his brain has a chance to catch up with pounding heart. 

Cas lingers in the doorway, shifting back and forth. His eyes dart between Dean and the floor and though he never says a word, the question is clear. Dean waits until Cas’ eyes light on his before he deliberately flips the edge of the covers back. 

Cas comes. He comes with tiny, stumbling steps, but he comes. When his knees hit the mattress, a sigh whooshes out of his lips. He crumples, but there’s nothing broken about the sight. Instead, this is resurrection, this is a burden lifted. Cas falls into bed the way that other people fall into salvation. 

After a moment, Dean reaches out across the mattress. His fingers brush over the back of Cas’ hand and Cas turns his hand, palm-up, into the touch. Their fingers slot together, like they were made for each other, and Dean’s never fit this seamlessly into anyone else’s life, not Cassie, not Lisa, no one. 

Every part of him opens up, like flowers breaking through the bedrock that he’s kept himself encased in for the last forty years. It feels almost like breaking, except there’s no pain in it, only a glorious sort of falling. Dean, for the first time in his life, embraces the feeling, and allows himself to fall. He falls right into Cas, until his nose is pressed into the soft cotton of Cas’ shirt, until his arm is slung over the dip of Cas’ waist, until his leg wiggles in between Cas’, until he can tangle his ankles with Cas’. 

Cas tenses, but only for a moment, and then he’s softening, molding his body to fit against Dean’s. Together, they soften, change to fill where the other is lacking. 

Together, they are made whole. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	17. know you are my pearl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road upwards is never without its dips.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Castiel’s days fall into a predictable routine. 

That’s not to say that he doesn’t appreciate it. He wakes in the morning in Dean’s bed, usually in Dean’s arms. He can’t even resent either the stickiness of his skin or the beading of sweat along the back of his neck, not when he witnesses the soft smile gracing Dean’s face as he blinks awake. 

He finds purpose in chores and fixing the house. It might not hold the same glory as commanding the garrisons of heaven, it might not even have the same honor as hunting, but there’s satisfaction in a job well done. Castiel finds pleasure in fixing broken things, in watching the house become whole underneath his hands. 

As they work, Dean tells him, in stilted conversations, his ultimate plan. He wants to turn the house into a place where people can come and stay, where they can take a break from their regular lives, if only for a weekend. Castiel thinks he understands--Dean wants the house to become a hotel, a nicer, more permanent version of the places where he and Sam spent their childhood. He’s surprised when Dean says, with some impatience, that’s not the case. 

“I want it to be a place where people can just...where they can just rest.” Dean stares at the wall, half-stripped of its peeling, moldy wallpaper. He rests his hands on the curling strips and makes a small, unhappy noise in the back of his throat. “Just people, but hunters too. Some place where they can come, and be safe and…” He looks at Castiel and there’s a plea hidden in his vibrant eyes. “People can be happy here, right?” 

Slipping into the routines of humanity allows Castiel to hear the unspoken question behind Dean’s words. _People can be happy here_ translates into _Are you happy here_? 

Happy is a human word for a human emotion, and an ill-defined one at that. Happy means different things to different people. All too often, Castiel’s heard that word in poorly delivered lies, usually from the mouths of Winchesters. But for Dean’s sake, Castiel considers. 

He doesn’t know about _happy_. He certainly isn’t gleeful or joyful. But he can’t deny that he has found a certain peace here. He’s content, which is more than he ever thought he would be. When he says this to Dean, it doesn’t get quite the reaction that he expects: Dean’s face falls and his mouth undergoes a series of interesting contortions before he turns back to the wall. 

“Dean.” Castiel pulls at Dean’s shoulder. He can’t push away the idea that he’s disappointed Dean. The notion of that sits uneasily in his stomach. “I don’t...I’m not accustomed to the full range of human emotions. I think you know that.” 

“No shit,” Dean sighs, but he’s at least listening. 

“I don’t...I don’t understand what it means to be happy,” Castiel begins. He chooses his words with care because this conversation matters; he has to make Dean understand. “Angels aren’t...there’s satisfaction in a mission complete, there’s righteousness, and there’s wrath. But other than that...It wasn’t until I spent time with you and your brother, until I became human for the first time, that I finally started to understand the complexities of human emotions. I never got a chance to feel them completely, to experience everything. I never had a chance to try and feel...to come close to happy.” 

Castiel swallows, but keeps his eyes on Dean’s face. “I don’t understand what it is to feel happy, but I understand contentment and I finally understand peace, and right now...I’m both of those. It’s more than I ever thought that I would find after losing my grace for the second time. So if you ask me if I think people can be happy...If I can feel like this, then I’m sure that they could find whatever version of happiness they’re capable of.” 

Dean doesn’t respond. Worry has just enough time to seep into Castiel’s chest before Dean moves. In just a few steps he crosses the distance between them. Before Castiel can react, Dean has him wrapped in a tight embrace. 

Over the years, Castiel has come to appreciate the comfort of a hug. Though the Winchesters aren’t necessarily generous with physical affection, he’s come to learn the solidity of Sam’s arms, as well as the warmth of Jack’s embrace. But those pale in comparison to the strength and ferocity of Dean. Dean hugs like he wants to take no prisoners, Dean hugs like he wants Castiel’s skin to always remember his touch. To hug Dean Winchester is to hug, in smallest part, a piece of the sun. 

Castiel returns the embrace as best he can. His arms are weak, paltry things, compared to the strength of Dean’s. Dean presses against him, forehead pushing into Castiel’s shoulder, hands tugging at the back of his shirt, like he’s trying to anchor Castiel. Like he’s trying lifelines down to the earth with every touch. He wants to tell Dean _It’s fine, I’m not going anywhere_, but he can’t, not when he still isn’t sure of whether or not Dean’s regard is a permanent state or just a fleeting fancy. 

\--

Dean is lighter after their talk. He whistles under his breath as they finish the room and start taping up the corners, windows, and doors in preparation for painting. Bemused, Castiel watches him and says nothing as they move around the room, working in swift, efficient motions. 

The majority of their days end in satisfaction as they survey the finished fruit of their labors. Today is no different as they walk out of the room, light-headed from the paint fumes. Tomorrow, they’ll put color on the walls, transforming the bedroom from a peeling, decaying mess into something whimsical and beautiful. Today, it’s enough to see that they’ve taken the first steps. 

Perhaps that’s all being human is: just a series of steps towards completing a project that will never be wholly done. 

\---

Dean teaches Castiel to cook. It’s a process that leads to several arguments, a few singed fingers, one disastrous oven fire, and a second degree burn on Castiel’s elbow that Dean patches up while cursing steadily under his breath. Castiel doesn’t think that he’s a bad student, just inexperienced. He finds the need to measure precise amounts irritating and Dean despairs over his lack of understanding about ‘medium-low’ heat (it makes sense to turn the heat up to the highest possible setting to therefore cook the food faster), but after a week, Castiel can be trusted to make a fairly simple meal on the stove without major incident. 

On nights when the weather is good, they eat outside. Castiel slaps at bugs until Dean invests in several candles meant to deter insects. The muggy summer heat envelops them, turning Castiel lazy and Dean indulgent. Stars twinkle into view above them and, drawn by instincts that he doesn’t understand, Castiel looks up at the bright specks in the midnight sky. 

“I knew their names, once,” he says, stifling a yawn. Dean pauses in bringing his bottle up to his lips and looks at Castiel with no small amount of interest. “Their true names. You humans gave them names, but so did the angels who created them, and it’s those that we remember.” 

“What are they?” Dean asks, scooting his chair closer. 

Castiel squints. It’s harder for him to make out the stars here on Earth and some of the subtleties of pronunciation escape a mortal brain. “Their true names are too long for humans,” he begins, but Dean looks so disappointed with that answer that Castiel points towards the sky. Dean leans closer to follow the line of his finger. “I remember that Anna created that cluster. Right there.” Castiel traces the graceful line as a sad smile tugs at his lips. “And Inias made...those.” 

Dean hums as his head drops to Castiel’s shoulder. “It’s nice,” he murmurs, his breath tickling at Castiel’s neck. “I got so used to thinking of angels as huge dicks. It’s good to know that they could create something beautiful.” 

Warmth spreads through Castiel’s chest. It emboldens him to lift his hand once again as he searches the sky. Once, the location was impressed upon his grace. He could no more lose it than he could lose his wings. But then the world shifted, and he lost both, and human eyes are ill-equipped to understand the cosmos. It takes him a moment, but he finds the cluster that he’s searching for. 

Dean follows his finger with vague curiosity. “Those. Do you see them?” Dean makes a noise of assent, but Castiel follows the line of his eyes and sees that Dean is just slightly off target. “No. There.” He doesn’t think about his actions as, with gentle fingers, he guides Dean’s chin just slightly to the left. “There.” 

“What’s special about them?” Dean murmurs. From the thickness in his voice, Castiel can tell that Dean’s losing the battle to sleep. 

“I made those,” Castiel says, pride and loss warring in his chest. 

Dean’s focus sharpens as he blinks with interest. Against his shoulder, Castiel can feel Dean’s face split into a wide smile. “No kidding?” Dean asks. “Always said that you had an eye.” 

Dean’s arm wraps around his shoulders and Castiel basks in the touch. He can’t stop his shiver when Dean’s fingers push into the hair at the base of his skull. The touch is beyond presumptuous, and were he an angel, Castiel probably never would have allowed it. Within the confines of humanity, within the spell of the night and the stars, however, Castiel feels giddy. He’ll allow this, he’ll allow Dean’s head resting on his shoulder, Dean pressed up against his side. “They’re gorgeous,” Dean whispers, and Castiel thinks that this is another example of subtext and things unsaid, where Dean’s real meaning is hidden just underneath the surface. 

\---

By now, it’s habit for Castiel to come to Dean’s bed. Even though a small voice in the back of his mind warns against it, he still finds himself treading the hall to Dean’s room every night. He knows, from his interactions with humans, that this isn’t normal behavior among friends. He knows that normal human friends don’t share a bed nightly, that they don’t curl into each other for comfort, that they don’t tangle their limbs before slipping away into sleep. 

Castiel isn’t wholly human, however, so he can’t bring himself to care. Millennia have passed him by and he hasn’t known rest like the kind he finds when he falls to sleep with Dean’s heat at his back.

After waking in a sweat for the past two days, Castiel decides to forego his shirt. With the added heat of Dean under the blanket, the garment will only end up uncomfortably plastered to his skin with sweat. Easier to just not wear it. 

Of course, he failed to take Dean’s strange sense of modesty into account. Upon seeing his attire for sleeping has changed to just shorts, Dean lets out a series of half-choked protests. Castiel calmly surveys Dean before sliding into his side of the bed. 

“Does this make you uncomfortable?” Castiel ignores the small twist in his gut that asks the question _What if it does make Dean uncomfortable_? He knows that this body is not what it used to be. Scars litter the previously unblemished skin, stark white and jagged. He’ll carry those scars with him until his death, and he’s come to accept that, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that Dean wants to be confronted with the sight. 

“Not really, I just...it’s...unexpected,” Dean finally gets out. A faint blush tinges his cheeks and Castiel begins to understand that it might not be about him. 

“I can change, if you’re upset,” he offers, because he’s nothing if not polite. 

Dean’s swallow clicks loudly in his throat. “Upset's not the word I would use, no.” 

Castiel settles back against the pillows. “It’s been warm the past few nights and sweating through garments is an uncomfortable way to sleep.” 

Dean grunts. Though his hands still fidget with the fraying hem of the blanket, he leaves off any verbal sort of complaining, which soothes Castiel enough that he can relax. Outside the door, he hears the soft mews of Meg, who still doesn’t accept the fact that she’s not allowed in Dean’s room. 

“Shut your cat up,” Dean groans at him several minutes later, after a particularly loud yowl. 

“What do you want me to do?” Castiel asks, a little grumpy himself. 

“I don’t know. Tell her that the humans in this house need to sleep and that she can’t be slutting it up with you while you’re in my bed.” 

A curious heat blooms in Castiel’s gut. Dean says it so casually--_while you’re in my bed_\--like that’s where Castiel belongs. Like he wouldn’t have Castiel any other place. He says it he wants Castiel to stay. 

\---

In the comfortable dark of the room, with only the moon to illuminate their faces, it’s easier to talk. Without the harsh light of day to throw their faults into unforgiving relief, they can pretend to be something, someone else. 

These conversations release secrets long held close to his chest, while simultaneously flaying him open to the bone. In the dark, there’s no need for posturing, so he and Dean don't bother to erect the walls which normally keep them safe and apart from each other. It means that Castiel can crawl into the dark spaces of Dean’s psyche, that he can try and create a home for himself there. It also means that Dean can do the same to him. 

The holding is new, but Castiel doesn’t mind. He likes feeling Dean’s arm slung over his torso, Dean’s wrist and knuckles pressed into his skin. It weighs him down, makes him feel more permanent. When he concentrates he can feel the thread of Dean’s pulse all night long, constant and steady. If he’s being honest, the holding is another reason why Castiel chose to forego his shirt--the illicit thrill of skin to skin contact is almost more than he can take. 

Dean might not judge his scars, but it doesn’t mean that he ignores them. One night, his thumb lands over the jagged lines on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel can’t fight the small shudder that runs through his body as the calluses on Dean’s thumb catch on the puckered skin. “Does it still hurt?” Dean asks. 

“Not anymore.” Truthfully, the skin knit itself back together in thick, white lines that deaden sensation. 

Behind him, Dean shifts forward, resting his forehead on the blade of his shoulder. It’s their only point of contact, but Castiel’s skin burns. Castiel waits for a reprimand, for a reminder of his stupidity, but all Dean does is release a shaking sigh onto his skin. Neither of them speaks for the rest of the night, but when Castiel wakes in the morning, they’re still in the same position. 

Other nights, Castiel tells Dean stories about heaven before it was tainted with corruption. Perhaps it’s just his nostalgia clouding his memories, but he does remember better times. Times when he was under Anna’s leadership and his only mission was to watch over the earth and catalogue the comings and goings of mankind. He and his siblings did great things--made the mountains, shifted the oceans, moved the stars. Afterward, Castiel feels scraped empty, but cleaner for the loss. 

Dean talks about the house, about what he wants to do the next day and the day after that. His words are hopeful, looking forward to a future that neither of them thought they would ever touch. He offers up these visions to Castiel like gifts. 

“There’s a community college about twenty miles from here,” Castiel mentions one night, having seen an ad for the school on the television. Dean grunts, obviously not catching Castiel’s train of thought. “I thought that maybe, if he was interested, Jack could take classes there one day.” 

Dean chuckles softly. “Sending the kid off to college already, huh?” Dean asks, his voice light and teasing. “You know, Sam probably would go too, little nerd.” Castiel relaxes into the mattress, smiling at the thought of Jack and Sam going off to school in the morning while he and Dean stay at the house, working on projects. The four of them sitting down to dinner every night, with no pressures other than the beautiful, mundane stresses of everyday life...Castiel hides his grin in the pillow. 

He wants that future. More than anything, he wants it for himself. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Nothing in Dean’s life stays perfect forever. 

He makes the mistake of thinking that it does. He makes the mistake of thinking that since Cas goes to sleep with him every night, that he’s magically cured. He lets his guard down for a single moment, and it all goes to shit. 

The day that everything falls apart, it rains. It’s not a light, gentle summer rain, but a belligerent, grey sort of rain that lingers from a watery sunup to a premature sundown. Even through the walls of the house, it sinks into the bones and leaves Dean cold and clammy. It’s exactly the kind of rain that Cas hates, that turns Cas lethargic and irritable, and from the moment he wakes to the sound of drops on the windowpane, Dean feels that it’s going to be a bad day. 

There’s no laughter over breakfast, no banter over what they’re going to do today. Cas drinks his coffee like it insulted him and glares at the world through slitted eyes. He grunts at every attempt to communicate and stalks back upstairs to get dressed, leaving Dean alone. 

Cas’ mood lasts through the day, interrupting their nightly rituals. Normally it’s Dean who reaches out, but tonight it’s Cas who looks for comfort as he slides into bed. Wordlessly, he moves across the vast expanse of mattress until he’s curled into Dean. Warmth bleeds into Dean’s side as Cas’ breathing deepens into the rhythm of sleep. And, foolishly, Dean relaxes, because he thinks that everything’s going to be alright. 

That thought lasts right until the moment that Cas wakes him up with his thrashing and whimpering. Dean’s heart jolts down to his knees and then up to his throat when he rolls over to investigate. 

Cas’ expression is a horrific blend of pain and fear. His lips pull back from his teeth in a rictus grin and his limbs twitch as a strangled cry dies in the back of his throat. It’s wrong, it’s obscene, to see Cas--proud, strong, warrior of God Cas--looking so desperate. Harsh, choked moans filter through his clenched teeth as his hands claw at the blankets and pillows. Sweat gleams on his forehead, and this is...This is what Dean heard through the walls, but never had the balls to investigate, this is what he let Cas deal with alone…

“Cas. Cas!” Dean reaches out, only to dodge a wild strike from a still-asleep Cas. “Cas, come on, snap out of it buddy!” 

Cas writhes on the mattress. A wild, keening noise fills the room. “Don’t,” he says, softly at first, but the word gains strength the more he repeats it. “Don’t, please. Please--” Cas breaks off, gasping in sharp pants as he shakes his head. “I can’t--No--Dean? Dean--_don’t_!” 

“Cas!” Dean’s grip turns punishing as fear pulses through him at the sound of his own name. “Wake up, wake up right the fuck--”

Cas’ eyes fly open. Blind panic shines in their depths. There’s no recognition as he thrashes and flails. One fist almost catches Dean on the side of the head, and there’s nothing to do but stop him. 

Dean captures first one wrist, then the other, but even then, Cas doesn’t stop fighting. All the while, awful, high whines come out of him, piercing through Dean’s skull and slamming into the worst parts of him. Cas bucks and twists in Dean’s hold, until the small bones of his wrist creak underneath the pressure Dean has to exert just to keep Cas from wrenching free. Finally, in an act of desperation, Dean straddles Cas, putting all of his weight square on the other man’s stomach as he pins Cas’ wrists to the mattress. 

“Cas!” Dean shouts, and why this manages to get through when nothing else did is a mystery that he won’t take the time to examine. It’s enough to watch awareness come back into Cas’ eyes in a quick flood. In one great rush, the tension leaves Cas’ body as he goes rag-doll limp. The only visible motion of his body is the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the erratic shivers chasing themselves through his skin. 

“Dean?” His voice is hoarse and small, wrecked in a way that makes Dean want to punch a hole in the wall. 

Instead, Dean comes out with a gentle, “Hey bud.” He even manages a smile, like this is a normal thing that normal people do: sit on top of your mostly naked best friend/crush after they’ve had a screaming nightmare. Dean’s thumb swipes at Cas’ temple, moving his hair away from the skin. He ignores how Cas’ sweat clings to the whorls of his fingerprint, like it wants to sink into his very skin. “You had me worried there for a second.” 

“My apologies,” Cas says, maybe a little strained. Now that he doesn’t have adrenaline pumping through his veins, no doubt Dean’s not inconsiderable weight on his stomach is a bit of a hindrance to breathing. 

Dean slides off of Cas’ body in the quickest, least enticing way he can. “You ok?” Dean asks, not that he thinks he’ll get an honest answer. Not while the sound of Cas’ cries are whimpers are still echoing in the still air.

“I’m fine,” Cas says. The words pop out like a reflex. Even though Dean taught Cas denial, a surge of irritation jumps through his blood. 

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” He does his best to dampen the harsh sound of sarcasm. “You wanna tell me what was so bad that it had you swinging?” 

“It’s fine,” Cas repeats. Each time he says the words, the thinner the lie stretches. 

“Whatever you say,” Dean snaps. His anger curls possessively around the vulnerable place in him that can’t understand _why_, after all this time, Cas can’t let him in. “Just go the fuck back to sleep then.”

“Dean,” Cas says, quietly, uncertainly, like he’s the one that’s hurt in all of this. Dean’s no saint, never even claimed to be. He snaps. 

“After everything that we’ve been through, everything that I’ve done for you,” he begins, though he’s aware that he didn’t mean to reduce his and Cas’ relationship down to some _quid pro quo_, “you’d think that you could at least tell me the truth. You’re not fine,” Dean explodes. The guileless look on Cas’ face urges his anger to new, dizzying, heights. “You’re hurting and you won’t let me help you, and I can’t stand it, knowing that you’re shutting me out—“

“You think that this is about _you_?” Cas hisses. He pulls away from Dean with the same violence exhibited in the ripping off of bandages. “You selfish...I can’t _help_ it! The least that I can do is try to let you find some kind of peace—“

“But I can’t,” Dean interrupts, more stung by the accusation of selfish than he’ll admit. “Not when I know that you’re having nightmares so bad that you’re screaming. Please Cas, just tell me, what is it that’s bad enough to make you have those dreams, and I won’t bother you—“ 

“Every time I close my eyes, all I see is every time I’ve failed you.” Cas’ voice is quiet in defeat, his eyes fixed on a stray thread in the blanket. “Metatron, the Mark, Jack...I see them all. Every instance where you were counting on me and I let you down.”

Dean’s throat is dry with words unsaid, but he’s nothing if not reckless, so he pushes. Cas has given him a piece of the truth, but Cas is also a master magician who manages to show you just half the cards and still make you feel like you’re holding the whole deck. 

“Cas, babe,” he cajoles, gentler now, “you were shouting my name, and that’s not nothing.”

Immediately, he knows that he’s struck a nerve. Cas’ eyes shutter, incomprehensible and distant, as he glances to the side. “Cas, please.” Dean closes his hand around Cas’ and squeezes. That small gesture sends the wall tumbling down. 

“I don’t...did you know, that was my worst fear,” Cas says, his eyes fixed on a point Dean can’t see. “I’m under no illusions as to my current state. I know that I’m not the being that I once was; I don’t have the same usefulness or purpose that I did. Once I commanded angels and now I’m just…” Cas makes a gesture to encompass his lovely, scarred skin. “The djinn showed me my worst fears and they were...death, and ash, and blood, but the worst was the thought that I had outlived my usefulness to you.”

There’s a wealth of information in the words that Cas doesn’t say, and as Dean parses through that, he can feel his heart breaking, ventricle by ventricle. Ever since the words came out of his mouth, he’s regretted sending a freshly human Cas away from the bunker. He knew at the time that he was driving a wedge between them, creating a wound that might never heal. 

“Cas,” Dean whispers, his hand coming up to cup Cas’ cheek. Stubble prickles at his palm and he can feel the shift of Cas’ throat underneath his fingertips. 

“I thought that if I could prove that I wasn’t weak anymore...that I was still valuable, even as a human…” Cas swallows, like it’s taking everything in him just to speak. “I don’t understand your patience for useless things,” he murmurs and that is just—

Dean digs his nails into Cas’ cheek, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to force his complete attention. The moonlight catches the startled flash of Cas’ eyes as they fly to Dean’s face, and Dean’s breath catches in his chest at the ethereal glow of them. 

“You aren’t useless,” Dean says, putting every ounce of conviction he possesses into the words. “You never were.”

“I can’t…” Cas whines, low and miserable in the back of his throat. “If I can’t help you—“

Dean yanks at Cas’ hair, which brings his words to a stop. Cas hisses out a pained breath, but Dean ignores him. “When are you going to get it through your thick skull,” he asks, soft and dangerous, “that for years all I’ve wanted is _you_? Not your powers, not what you can do for me...goddammit Cas, you think I was pissed when you left because I was missing my ace in the hole?” Dean jerks on Cas’ hair again, because from the sliver of Cas’ face visible in the slant of moonlight, that’s exactly what Cas thinks. “It was _you_, asshole. All I ever wanted was you around because I...I…” 

The rest of his sentence catches in his throat. The word _love_ sticks to his tongue and refuses to make the journey to open air. Dean chokes on his inadequacies. From the look on Cas’ face, he can tell that it hasn’t been enough. His pale, meager words haven’t convinced him. 

Dean Winchester has always been a man of action, rather than words, so he does the one thing that he can think to do. 

When he’d thought of kissing Cas, and he’d thought of it a lot, Dean always thought that Cas’ lips would be chapped. They’re not. They’re soft and warm, and just a little too dry, and Dean never thought that he would be here, in a bed and breakfast in Vermont, kissing his best friend, kissing _Cas_, but it just goes to show. 

Cas never fights as Dean tilts his head so that he can slot their lips together. Dean’s hand travels over Cas’ cheek, his thumb coming to rest just above the bolt of Cas’ jaw.

Cas doesn’t pull away in disgust, but he doesn’t push forward. He’s a passive participant and after a second, Dean’s heart sinks. Cas doesn’t want this, doesn’t want him. He makes to pull away, but then…

Dean gave up believing in miracles decades ago. But, as Cas reaches out towards him with a soft, greedy sigh, as Cas’ lips push up against his before his mouth falls open and he takes Dean’s lower lip between his, as Cas’ hands frame his face, thumbs stroking over his cheeks like Dean is something precious, as Cas breathes out a broken _“Dean”_ into his mouth so that Dean can swallow the sound…

It’s closest to a miracle that Dean will ever come. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	18. more than the whole wide world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dilemma presents itself.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The months slip away, dream-like. The long days of summer slide into the golden days of autumn, when the leaves turn brilliant warm colors, painting the mountains in a riot of orange and red. Tourists flood the town of Battleborough, transforming the small, sleepy buildings into a sparkling metropolis, at least for four weeks. Then, the colors fade, and so do the tourists, back to wherever they came from. 

The leaves reluctantly fall off the trees as a chill creeps into the air. The house creaks and groans in the cold, and the heat rattles as it tries to fill the vast rooms with their soaring ceilings. At night, Dean and Cas curl together, their body heat spreading through the blankets until they’re enveloped in a cocoon. In the morning, Cas’ nose is cold, and it becomes Cas’ favorite trick to shove his face into the sleep-warm hollow of Dean’s throat until Dean squirms with laughter and pushes him away. 

In the sweet, orange glow of autumn, Cas flourishes. He moves around the house and yard with renewed confidence and purpose, the muscles of his back working as he rakes the leaves or starts moving dirt in order to create a firepit. One afternoon, Cas spends hours clearing every leaf from the yard, raking until they’re all in one neat pile. Dean comes out to examine his work, throwing a companionable arm around Cas’ shoulders. Cas relaxes into him, just for a second, before Dean launches them both into the leaves with a wild, berserker yell. Cas emerges from the ruined pile, looking spitting mad, but he laughs as he dumps leaves down the back of Dean’s shirt and as he scatters the particles of crushed leaves into Dean’s hair. Breathless with laughter, they fall back into the earth, staring up at the soft, blue sky. They manage to compose themselves, at least until they meet the other’s eyes. Then they’re howling again, acting like the children that neither of them ever were. 

Dean’s never had strong emotions about seasons one way or the other, except to think that chasing monsters in the winter sucks because there’s always the chance that he could slip on ice and fall on his ass and that chasing monsters in the summer sucks because it’s already hot and exercise on top of that is just torture. But here, in the halcyon days of autumn, Dean finds a new appreciation for the changing of seasons as he indulges in the simplest of pleasures, such as a new creamer for his coffee, or the warmth of a new hoodie wrapped around his shoulders. The particular way that Cas’ mouth softens when Dean kisses from his forehead down to his chin. 

Kissing Cas is his favorite pastime, one that never grows old, mostly because Cas always seems surprised when it happens. Even when Cas is the initiator, his eyes go wide and pleased when Dean leans forward to close the distance between the two of them. Then, his eyes flutter closed and a satisfied little sigh drifts out of his mouth, and Dean thinks that maybe, all the pain and blood and death might have been worth it. 

With little fanfare or angst, Cas moves himself into Dean’s room. Sharing drawers is a small pleasure that Dean never knew he was missing until he opened his closet to find Cas’ shirts mingled with his. And sure they have their problems: Cas is a dirty little thief who steals Dean’s shirts and sweatshirts every chance he gets and who doesn’t bother to coordinate his clothing so it all ends up piled into the drawer in a haphazard mess. Searching through their underwear drawer for his socks is a task which takes precious minutes out of his day, but the gut-punch of pleasure Dean gets whenever he sees Cas’ socks entwined around his is something that he wouldn’t know how to begin to give up. 

Sam and Jack pop in during the brilliant weeks, when the colors are so vivid that it looks like they came straight out of a magazine. The four of them fall into old routines like they never left the bunker, with one exception. They’re all piled into the den, as comfortably as four people can be when three of them are six feet or over, when Dean realizes that they’re out of drinks. “I’ll get them,” Cas offers, standing up. Without thinking, Dean cranes his head in an unspoken request. Cas complies, dropping a swift kiss onto his lips before leaving the room for the kitchen. He doesn’t even break stride to do it, and the gesture is so habitual that Dean doesn’t even think about it until the silence crashes down around him. Heat prickles up the back of his neck as he slides his eyes over to Jack and Sam. Jack looks torn between grinning and wanting to be anywhere else on earth, but Sam...He’s doing his best to hide it, but there’s a self-satisfied, foxy tilt to Sam’s eyes and a definite smug set to his shoulders. Nothing more is said, not even when Cas comes back, drinks in hands. He distributes them and then slides a hand, still chilly from the drinks, across the back of Dean’s neck. Before Cas has a chance to pull his hand back towards his lap, Dean seizes it with an urgency bordering on fierce. Underneath his fingertips, he can feel the quick jump of Cas’ pulse, but it settles almost immediately. For the rest of the night, Dean holds Cas’ hand in his, ignoring the sweaty press of their palms together. When he sees Cas’ soft, awed smile, something so close to pain that it’s pleasurable burns in Dean’s chest. 

There was a time when Dean would have been embarrassed, but that time passed long ago. Dean knows how hard they fought to get here and what was lost along the way. Those struggles are etched into his bones and skin, painted on the inside of his eyelids so that he sees them whenever he closes his eyes. In the face of that, shame seems self-indulgent. 

A week after Sam and Jack arrive, Rowena blows into town. She arrives with no warning; Dean just walks downstairs one morning to start the coffee percolating and finds a witch in his kitchen. “Good morning dearie,” she croons, perching on one of the stools as if she owns it. “Do you know that you don’t have any warding on your house?”

Dean grunts, as he walks past her on his way to the coffee maker. Once upon a time, it would have been unimaginable: a witch, in his kitchen? Dean would have rather chewed his own foot off than explain to his father how that happened. Now, he brings down a mug and jerks his head to the pantry. “Tea’s in there.” 

“Wonderful.” Soon, the aroma of spice and coffee fills the kitchen. It’s enough to lure Jack out of his bedroom and downstairs. 

“Ah, Jacky-boy.” Rowena sets down her mug and tucks her arm firmly in Jack’s. “Just the person I wanted to see. We need to do some warding on this house, ensure that no beasties can get through. Come along!” 

She whisks Jack out of the kitchen, with all the efficiency of a cradle-robber, ignoring Jack’s faint, “I haven’t even had breakfast yet.” Dean buries his smile in his mug. That smile disappears when he discovers the five bags, each half as tall as him and weighing approximately the same as a small elephant, sitting next to the stairs. 

Dean’s a good brother, he really is. Which is why he decides to tell Sam that Rowena’s made her appearance by bellowing, “Sam! You need to bring Rowena’s bags upstairs!” as loudly as his lungs will allow. 

Later that afternoon Rowena does a cleansing on the house with Sam and Jack as her assistants. Dean watches Sam and he watches Rowena, and he watches Sam and Rowena. He wonders how he never saw it before. The way that Sam gravitates towards her, his eye always drawn to wherever Rowena happens to be. Rowena’s jagged edges smooth out around Sam and she becomes someone different, someone human and fallible. It’s weird, it’s damn weird, and Dean probably would’ve liked it better if Sam had picked the librarian down the street, but he’s learned a little bit about letting go this past year. Sam’s life isn’t his. It never was. If Rowena doesn’t look like she’s planning on murdering Sam and Jack (all signs point to ‘no’ on that account), then it’s not Dean’s business. 

He does corner Sam one afternoon, when the rest of them are out in the yard. “So you and Rowena huh?” he asks. His voice and expression are trying for casual, but from the look on Sam’s face, Dean can guess that he lands miserably short. 

Sam glances out the window, looking at where Rowena, Jack, and Cas are gathered. Rowena’s hair burns a bright auburn in the late afternoon sun. “I guess,” he answers with a dopey looking smile. “We’re just people. And it’s nice, you know? To just be people for once.” 

“Yeah well.” Dean cuts the moment by punching Sam in the shoulder, on the wrong side of too hard. “You know that she’s too old for you, right?”

Sam gives him the most bitchiest of faces. “Seriously? Your boyfriend remembers the _Big Bang_, and you’re giving _me_ grief?” 

“Yeah, well. When you get to be an older brother, then you can make the rules.” That’s all that’s said, though Dean doesn’t miss the small, private smile that Rowena shoots his way later that night, or the proud hand rubbing over the back of his neck later that night, attached to a silent, pleased, Cas. 

The three of them stay for a few weeks, then, as easily as they blew in, Sam, Jack, and Rowena whisk themselves out. Sam cites the impending cold weather as the reason for their departure, but there’s a wistfulness as he watches Rowena disappear, bags in tow, and a restlessness that dogs his steps. It’s possible, Dean thinks as he helps Sam load his bags in the depressingly suburban sedan he’s picked out, that there’s a little bit of the wanderlust in Sam as well. He always thought that he was the one who loved the road, but after all these years on the road maybe the trait leaked down to his brother. 

Dean’s breath puffs out in a cloud as he and Cas bid Sam and Jack farewell. “Don’t wait six months to come back again,” Dean warns, shoving his hands deep into his jeans pockets. Cas shifts next to him, pushing close enough that his shoulder pushes into Dean’s. Dean leans into him, taking the unspoken offer of comfort. 

Sam grins. “Are you kidding? It’ll be Thanksgiving and Christmas before you know it. Where exactly did you think that we were going to spend it?” Jack perks up at the mention of the holidays. “Stay out of trouble jerk.” Sam’s eyes slide to Cas as he speaks and Dean understands the message well enough. 

“Yeah, you too bitch.” They hug and then, Sam and Jack are gone. Dean and Cas stand in the yard, watching as their car disappears around the bend. Despite Sam’s assurances that he and Jack would return soon, melancholy settles around Dean. 

He jerks in surprise as Cas’ cold fingers squeeze his hand. “Come on,” Cas says quietly, leaning his head against Dean’s shoulder. “I’ve got coffee brewing in the kitchen.” 

Dean follows Cas, unthinking, into the house and sits at the table. In a role reversal, Cas bustles around the kitchen, placing a mug of steaming coffee in front of Dean, along with a plate of slightly runny eggs. Dean eats them regardless. He can ignore the flavor; he’s too caught up in watching Cas. 

Cas, who now wears humanity like a comfortable robe instead of a stifling suit. Cas, who spends every night in his bed and who gets grumpy in the morning if Dean tries to wake him before the alarm goes off. Cas, who devours paperbacks at an astronomical rate. Cas, who treats every kiss like a gift delivered special from the universe. 

“Hey,” Dean says, catching Cas’ wrist as he clears the table. Cas looks at him, eyelashes fluttering in surprise. “I just wanted to...Thanks,” he finishes, lamely. He still can’t say it, those three words that clutter his thoughts and dreams. He wants to, god knows he _feels_ them: every night he goes to sleep, every morning he wakes, every day he feasts his eyes on Cas. Love beats through his blood, fills his lungs, tingles at his fingertips. But he can’t do the last little bit, can’t force his tongue around those words that he’s only ever said to his family under duress. 

Cas’ eyes are soft as he looks down at Dean, like maybe he’s guessed what lurks in Dean’s mind. “Of course,” he says, before he leans down and kisses Dean’s forehead. 

Love aches in his chest, love wraps around his heart, love fills him until he’s drowning. 

\-----

The first cloud on the horizon comes a week later, from the town next to them. 

Dean hears it on the eleven o’clock news. He’s half-dozing, his head pillowed in Cas’ lap. Cas’ fingers had been making leisurely journeys through his hair, but a swift glance up shows that Cas is gone, his head resting on the back of the couch. A small snore jolts through his body, but he doesn’t wake. Dean’s about to reach up and shake Cas awake-- if Cas stays in that position, his neck and back will hurt for at least two days afterward which will turn Cas into even the sweetest tempered person’s worst nightmare--when the next story catches his attention. 

_Three bodies in Chesterfield Vermont_. 

_Suspicious wounds on the neck and torso_. 

_Damage done to the bodies, reports of ritualistic elements_.

_Lack of leads_. 

Anyone with half a foot in the supernatural world could read the signs, plain as skywriting. For Dean, it’s like the news anchor came out of the TV and slapped him across the face. His stomach turns and the weight of Cas’ hand turns from comforting to smothering. 

Vampires. Less than thirty miles from here. 

If this were a year ago, when they still lived in the bunker, it wouldn’t even be a question. Dean might not have even bothered to bring Sam or Cas along. He could have finished the job and then run to the store for groceries. A year ago, this wouldn’t have even been a blip on his radar. But now…

A small snore rattles in the back of Cas’ throat. Dean’s chest clenches as he stares at him, the thoughtless peace splashed across his sleeping face. This morning they’d woken up twisted together, with Cas’ cold feet pressed against Dean’s shins. Dean had grumbled and complained and then accepted Cas’ morning-sour kiss with a smile. 

He grabs the remote and flicks the TV off. He waits until the glow fades before he reaches up to flick at the tip of Cas’ nose. Cas jerks awake with an undignified snort, looking around the room before he peers down at Dean. “What time is it?” he asks, voice sleep-thick. 

“Time to get up and go to bed,” Dean answers. He pulls himself off Cas’ lap then helps pull a less than cooperative Cas to his feet. “Come on grouchy, you can’t sleep here or else you’ll be stiff tomorrow.” Though Cas grumbles, he goes along with Dean’s prodding. 

Dean waits until Cas is in the bathroom before he turns to his cellphone. He sends out the same text to Sam, Ketch, Jody, and Donna. 

_**Vampire nest in Chesterfield, Vermont**_. 

He deletes the message and sets his phone on the bedside table just before Cas walks in. Something in his face or demeanor must alert Cas, because he pauses before walking to the bed. “Everything all right?” Cas asks, brow furrowing in concern. 

Dean forces a smile that he doesn’t feel while he stretches out enticingly under the blanket. “It’s fine,” he answers, stopping his voice just short of a sultry purr. “Come to bed.” 

The look on Cas’ face says that he’s not convinced, but he thankfully doesn’t push. Once his body is underneath the covers, Dean pulls him greedily close, running his nose over the tendon of Cas’ neck. “Cas,” he murmurs, drinking in the smell of shampoo, toothpaste, and sawdust. “Babe.” 

Cas doesn’t push him away, call him names, or ridicule him for being clingy. Quite the opposite. He strokes down Dean’s neck and back, nails digging light furrows through the material of his shirt. A low rumble starts in his chest. Dean’s not sure how Cas manages to make the noise, so similar to a purr--maybe it’s some weird, leftover angel anatomy, making itself known in the strangest of ways. All he knows is that the sound spreads through Cas’ body and into his, and the warmth it creates in his chest rivals the heat created by the two bodies pressing together under the blanket. 

That warmth seeps through his bones and helps convince Dean that he did the right thing, even as the tiny voice that’s kept him alive all these years warns that there’s always repercussions for making decisions for those that you love. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

In the deepening cold, Castiel wakes late. He thinks that it probably has something to do with how the chill seeps into his bones and creates a brutal, unwelcoming environment. Leaving the bed is always a deeply unsatisfying experience, but it’s worse when the very air bites at his skin and he can’t bear to put his bare feet down on the floor for longer than a few seconds. 

A few seconds’ observation provides a pleasant surprise: Dean is still asleep next to him, arm heavy over Castiel’s waist and warm breath dampening the fabric of his shirt. Normally by the time that he wakes, Dean is at least awake, if not downstairs and halfway through his second cup of coffee. To find him not only still in bed, but snoring softly, is an unlooked for delight. 

Castiel rolls over onto his side. The new position not only allows him to observe Dean more closely, it also brings them so close together that their noses brush. The proximity is enough to quicken Castiel’s breath and send blood coursing down to his groin. 

In his first foray into humanity, there wasn’t much time to explore the nuances of arousal and sexuality. His one experience had ended disastrously. After that, as well as his dismissal from the bunker, Castiel hadn’t been eager to try again with a partner. He would lie awake some nights, on his thin sleeping back in the back of the Gas’N’Sip, his bones and muscles aching, yet the steady pulse of arousal still flowed through his blood. With tentative motions, he would stroke the hardening flesh between his legs, gasping at the pleasure spiking through his body. Despite the emptiness of the store, his teeth would gnaw at his lower lip, suppressing the heady moans and sighs which threatened to escape. Somehow, they seemed so much more damning in the utter stillness. He would struggle on the precipice of something amazing, toes curling and teeth clenched, until the thought of sandy hair, strong hands, and green eyes would tip him over the edge. Afterwards he would clean himself up, furtive and ashamed, somehow feeling like someone was watching him with disappointment. 

The whims and tugs of human desire had ceased to be urgent when he regained his grace, though the persistent attraction to Dean had remained. As an angel it had been hard enough to ignore, but as a human? Dean will do something ordinary, like scratch at the back of his neck, or tip his head back in laughter, or roll his eyes and Castiel will be stricken. 

And now, when they’re sharing a bed together?

One shift of his hips will bring their groins together. One movement and Castiel will finally know what Dean’s body feels like against his most intimate parts. One shift...Castiel forces his body still as Dean sighs. He can’t do that to Dean. That would be an unforgivable violation of the trust which Dean has placed in him. 

It’s frustrating to his libido that Dean hasn’t initiated anything more than kisses. Sometimes, they’ll be on the couch, or in bed, and Dean’s mouth will turn hard and demanding against his and Castiel, overwhelmed, will gasp and grab at Dean’s shoulders. Then, inevitably, Dean will look at him, and the heat behind his eyes will dim into something calm and tame. The affection is there, it’s always there, relentless and unwavering as the tides, but the hunger is gone, and Castiel wonders what he’s done to make it disappear. 

Dean groans, deep in his chest, and like tides to the moon, Castiel’s eyes are drawn to him. Here, he can spend his time counting the freckles that sprinkle Dean’s nose and cheeks, even now in the depths of winter. Here, he can appreciate the dark fan of Dean’s eyelashes against his cheek, and the way that sleep relaxes Dean’s normally stern features. 

He’s lovely, so much so that Castiel aches. 

When the sweet pain reaches a crescendo in his chest, Castiel slides out of bed but not without dropping a swift kiss to Dean’s hairline. A faint grumble of protest emanates from Dean but he doesn’t wake at the sudden influx of cold air which accompanies Castiel’s departure. Castiel spares one look at him before he gathers his clothes and heads towards the shower. 

The shower helps to chase the chill out of his body, but it can’t help the empty rumbling of his stomach. Castiel dodges an affectionate Meg, who seems determined to trip him as he’s walking down the stairs, and makes his way to the kitchen, urging her to quiet all the time. Once in the kitchen, Castiel shoves a few pieces of bread in the toaster. Soon enough, the scent of toast fills the kitchen. Castiel crunches on the bread, while he wanders over to the laptop sitting on the breakfast table. 

Out of habit, he loads several news sites and peruses over their contents. There’s nothing particularly happy (most of the headlines concern tensions between foreign countries or the corruption of American politics), but nothing other-worldly catches his eye. That changes when he checks the local paper’s website and reads about the goings-on of Chesterfield and Battleborough, Vermont. The more he reads of the article, the more cold wraps around Castiel’s heart. Once he reaches the bottom, he returns to the top. Then again, and then again.. Each subsequent reading does not to improve his understanding or his mood. 

By the time Dean comes downstairs, Castiel has been staring at the bland landscapes of the screensaver for upwards of thirty minutes. Dean doesn’t pay attention to him at first, too focused on the pot of coffee still warming, but after half a cup, he walks over to Castiel. 

“Hey Cas, what’s up--” Dean slings one arm around Castiel’s shoulders and nudges the touchpad of the laptop in idle curiosity with his free hand. From the sudden strength of Dean’s grip on his shoulder, as well as the sharp inhalation of breath behind him, Castiel knows that Dean’s seen the headline. 

“Three people are dead in Chesterfield, Vermont. And now there are two suspicious deaths in Battleborough.” Castiel’s voice is flat. “There’s a nest of vampires and now they’re in our town.” 

He turns to face Dean. He expects surprise and horror, indignation and anger. He expects Dean to already be searching for his boots and machete. What he doesn’t expect is the swift, furtive flicker of guilt flashing across Dean’s face. 

Castiel’s heart clenches. “Dean,” he says, carefully keeping any inflection out of his voice. “Dean, did you know about this?”

He can see the moment when Dean considers lying, as well as see the moment when Dean dismisses the idea. He’s glad for that, at the very least. 

“I knew about Chesterfield,” Dean says. His eyes never waver from Castiel’s, like he thinks that solves anything. “I didn’t know that the nest had already moved here.” 

Castiel pushes aside the hurt bubbling in his chest. That has no place here, at least not at the moment, when there are more important concerns. “What are we going to do?”

That gets Dean’s attention. Green eyes snap to his and Dean’s mouth twists in a manner that Castiel hasn’t seen in months. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Castiel begins, “what are we going to do about the vampires in our town?” 

Dean laughs, but there’s no mirth in it. “We’re,” he points between them for emphasis, “not going to do anything. I texted Ketch, Sam, Jody, and Donna. One of them will take care of it or send someone to take care of it.” 

For a moment, Castiel is sure that he’s misheard Dean. Someone _else_ will take care of it? He wants to throw salt on the person standing in front of him, just to make sure that this is actually Dean. He’s never heard Dean sidestep responsibility, especially not when actual lives are at stake. He mentions this and watches Dean’s face darken. “These are people that we know,” Castiel finishes. He’s not sure why that’s important, but he feels the accuracy of the statement deep in his chest. “We can’t wait for another hunter to get here, not when we can stop it.” 

“Cas, no.” Castiel hates the expression on Dean’s face, a mixture of pain and anger, and hates even more that he’s part of the reason it’s there. “No.”

“Why Dean?” It’s a struggle to keep his voice even and reasonable, especially when the same fear on Dean’s face starts to curl around his heart. The reminders of his last, disastrous hunt are permanently scarred onto his flesh. When he sleeps, even now, with Dean’s warmth next to him, he sometimes dreams about claws digging into his skin, the quick spurt of blood, the blinding pain. The last thing Castiel wants is to jump back into that world of gore, fear, and death, but he learned long ago that very few humans get what they want in life. 

“Because,” Dean starts, only to clamp his jaw shut. He stares out the window as a tiny muscle in his jaw twitches. 

Castiel waits for an explanation, but none is forthcoming. It’s obvious that Dean isn’t going to help him with this, so it’s up to him to bridge the gap between them. “We owe it to these people. You know that you’re not going to be able to live with yourself if someone gets hurt and you could have done something to prevent it.” 

Dean doesn’t even look at him. His only reaction is a noticeable tightening of his jaw. Castiel wants to be angry with him--for lying, for hiding the truth of the situation from him, for taking his choice away from him, and for withdrawing now when Castiel needs him most. He wants to be angry, but he just can’t quite manage the emotion. The anger is definitely there, but it’s outweighed by concern. Castiel reaches out, his fingers curving around Dean’s jaw. The gentle touch finally has Dean turning towards him. 

“Dean. You know that I’m right.” 

The look in Dean’s eyes is stripped raw. The stubble on his cheek scrapes against Castiel’s palm as Dean turns his head and presses a kiss to the soft skin of his wrist. Castiel doesn’t move, just lets Dean breathe shallowly into the hollow of his hand until it’s moist from the heat of his breath. “Why are you fighting this?” Castiel asks. He’s run through all possible scenarios in his head, but he can’t find one which explains Dean’s behavior. 

Dean’s hands grab blindly at Castiel’s shoulders in a wordless quest for comfort. Castiel allows Dean to pull him close. He can feel the barely restrained desperation in his touch, the tremble that Dean tries and fails to suppress. It’s reflex, the way that Castiel’s arms move to wrap around Dean’s shoulders, but Dean still folds into him. 

“I can’t,” Dean mumbles, his words almost lost in the folds of Castiel’s shirt. “I can’t lose you. Not again.” 

Irritation flares bright and hot in Castiel’s stomach. It screams at him to push Dean away, but he can’t bring himself to, especially when Dean’s fingers twist the fabric of his shirt. He holds on with a desperation born of experience. “You won’t lose me.” Dean lets out a ragged breath against Castiel’s neck. “It’s just a hunt. You and I have been on dozens. Hundreds.” 

He realizes, of course, that he’s trying to convince himself as well as Dean. The scars on his back and chest twinge and his abdomen throb with a dull, half-remembered pain. The possibility of death looms over every hunt, a grim specter that they do their best to ignore with increased bullet counts and sarcasm. 

“I know we have to.” Dean says the words into the skin of Castiel’s neck. “I know.” 

“It’ll be fine,” Castiel says, though he has no proof of that. “We’ll be fine.” 

“You can’t promise that,” Dean says, though he finally brings his face out of its hiding spot against Castiel’s neck. 

“No one can.” Castiel’s fingers find their way into the short hairs at the base of Dean’s neck. Irritation still rolls in his gut, along with the beginnings of dread, and the whispers of inadequacy sneaking down his spine. “But we’ll be together.” Dean stiffens and Castiel anticipates his reaction before it comes out of his beautiful mouth. “We’re in this together Dean. I thought that’s what this was about.” 

He knows that Dean isn’t happy. He doesn’t even need to see Dean’s face--he feels it in the tension of his shoulders, hears it in the shortness of his breaths. But this isn’t something that Castiel can compromise on. He _needs_ to quiet the tiny voice lurking in the back of his head, still whispering his failures and inadequacies. He needs to prove the rightness of his place next to Dean.

“All right.” Dean whispers. “All right.” He gives himself another moment, another brief retreat from the world, before he pulls in a shaky breath and stands up straight. His hands fall away from Castiel’s body and when Castiel catches sight of his face, he sees the Dean Winchester that he first met, the one who’s been tucked away inside the Dean that he’s come to love in these past months. 

It’s the hunter, ruthless and calculating, who looks back at Castiel. “We need to start working on a plan,” Dean says, his voice so assured that Castiel manages to forget, just for a moment, the foreboding gathering in the pit of his stomach that warns of nothing except pain, and blood, and death.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	19. i love you pretty baby but

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last hunt.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The blade fits in his hand like it never left. The machete is a solid presence on his hip, brushing against his thigh whenever he moves. He even has his gun tucked into the back of his pants. Most reassuringly, Castiel has Dean next to him, a silent presence as they slip through the warehouse door. 

It hadn’t taken them long to search through the abandoned real estate of Battleborough, or to formulate a plan. It certainly wasn’t the most difficult hunt, at least in terms of legwork. If Castiel was still in possession of his grace, then he wouldn’t have even bothered sending a text to Dean and Sam. He could have burned the nest out and have been back to the bunker in time for a theoretical dinner. 

Despite his repeated reassurances to Dean, a small nugget of worry is still lodged in Castiel’s chest. He can’t shake off the fear that comes from having a blade in his hands again. Every shadow is fraught with potential and the shifting darkness sends Castiel’s mind spiraling back to that last, horrific hunt in the forest. 

Next to him, Dean moves with a stiff tension contrary to his normal fluid grace. Castiel wants to tell him to relax, but he can’t, not when his own body is so brittle with tension. All it would take would be one small nudge and Castiel would shatter into a thousand pieces. All day long, after they finished hashing through their plan, a hush of silence descended upon the house. He and Dean moved around each other like solid ghosts, even when all that Castiel longed for was tactile comfort. He wanted the weight of Dean’s hand on the back of his neck, he wanted to rest his hand on Dean’s chest and feel the beat of his heart. He wanted Dean to tell him that it was all going to be all right, that they were going to be fine. He wanted to give voice to the words weighing down his tongue and press them into Dean’s skin until they were embedded so deeply that they became freckles in the constellations on Dean’s skin. 

None of that happened. All that happened was, at sundown, they gathered their weapons and headed into the Impala. All through the drive there was the pervasive sense of not-right crawling underneath Castiel’s skin. Sam should be in the passenger’s seat, Dean should be humming along with a song on the radio, and Castiel should be sitting in the backseat, with the continuous hum of his grace buzzing just underneath his skin. 

Instead, he and Dean are creeping through Battleborough’s tiny warehouse district, looking for vampires, a year and a half after Dean swore that he was never going on another hunt. 

“Should we split up?” Castiel murmurs. “We could cover more ground.” 

“No.” Dean’s tone brooks no disagreement. “No way in hell.” Caught in the harsh light, the slant of his eyes speaks volumes. _Have you learned nothing_, they say, and Castiel quails underneath the silent reprimand. 

They move through the warehouse, their shoes stepping lightly on the filth-encrusted floors. Castiel is about ready to suggest that they move onto a different location, when he hears the soft scrape of a foot against concrete. Judging from the sudden thrill which runs through Dean’s body, he hears it too. He and Dean might not have the same non-verbal language as Dean and Sam, but they do well enough. Castiel spreads out from Dean’s side, slipping his blade into his belt and pulling out his machete. 

“Come on out,” Dean calls, his voice echoing eerily back at him from metal walls. “You’ve got two tasty snacks out here.” He glances back at Cas, a hint of his reckless smile on his face. 

Castiel hurts with how much he loves him, how terrified he is of losing him. 

The sound of soft footsteps comes again, except echoed. There’s more than one vampire, not that Castiel was expecting otherwise. From the number of bodies spread between Chesterfield and Battleborough, he would guess that there are approximately three to four vampires in the nest. From the clumsiness of the kills, he would also guess that they’re fairly young. Not that their age counts for anything: he thought the same of the werewolves and they almost destroyed him. 

“Cas,” Dean says, with a significant nod to his left. Castiel’s human eyes might not be the best, but they’re good enough to spy the shadows spiking across the wall. However…

“Dean,” he says in return, jerking his head to Dean’s right, where another pair of shadows move across the wall. Four vampires then. And of course they’ve split themselves. It’s the logical choice, when facing two enemies. Castiel would have made it, were he still leading a flight. 

“We need to split up.” Dean’s objection is a given, which is why Castiel is ready with two fingers shoved against Dean’s lips. “There’s no way that all four of them are going to come towards us at once. Whichever pair we go after will fight us, giving the other pair time enough to ambush us at the worst moment. Splitting up is the only option that makes sense.” 

Distress and anger are etched into every facet of Dean’s face. Castiel can see the internal struggle playing out across his features and he wants the power to clear it away with a touch of his hand. He wants to be able to fix everything with a mere thought, to chase away nightmares and soothe worries. But all he can do is grab the lapel of Dean’s flannel and pull him close, spending seconds that neither of them can afford to drag Dean’s head down. 

“Let me do this.” Castiel twists his fingers in Dean’s hair, forcing Dean’s eyes to focus on his. “Trust me, trust _us_. I can do this.” A wild, reckless impulse bursts in him, magma rising from the center of the earth, a Saturn rocket counting down to zero. 

“I love you,” comes out of his mouth, quite without his permission. This isn’t how he wanted to say those words, but the truth of the statement settles over him like the barest reminder of his grace. He says it again, just to taste the syllables on his tongue. “I _love_ you, and the second that we finish this hunt we are going back to our house and back to our bed and I am going to show you _exactly_ how much I love you.” 

He crushes his lips to Dean’s, so hard that he tastes copper as his teeth cut into his lip. Dean freezes before opening up to him, hands coming up to cup Castiel’s face. He kisses Castiel with desperation, but only for a moment. Triumph and fear war within Castiel when they break away and it’s only the dazed look in Dean’s eyes that keeps him from melting on the spot. 

“Hell yeah,” Dean murmurs, pressing a fierce kiss to Castiel’s lips before he hefts his machete in his right hand. He looks at Castiel like he just swallowed the sun. “See you when it’s done Cas.” He grins at Cas, swift and unexpected, before he turns to his right and walks into the darkness.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Even as he struggles to keep his breathing even and regulated, Dean can’t quite keep the bounce out of his step. 

Cas loves him. He _loves_ him. He said so himself. 

He’s dizzy with the implications, which is not the best preparation to go into a hunt. He really hates these cock-blocking vampires. If the bodies and prospect of imminent death weren’t enough to warrant death, that would be enough right there. These bloodsuckers are currently that stands between him and the quite frankly tantalizing promise that Cas just made him. 

_Our house. Our bed_. 

Yeah, Dean’s really not in the best headspace for a hunt right now, but at least he has motivation on his side. 

He would have felt better waiting for backup on this hunt, but that suggestion had been shot down by nothing more than a wilting look from Cas. Logically, Dean understands. He has over forty years of hunting under his belt and Cas was a goddamned warrior of heaven. But then his brain dredges up thoughts of Cas’ body, bloodied and broken in the clearing, Cas’ screams echoing through the trees, Cas’ heart failing right in front of him, and Dean understands what it means to feel fear. 

He shakes his head and tightens his grip on his machete. He can’t think about that now. All he has room for in his brain is the hunt, the vague rust-like scent of blood in the air, the prickling on the back of his neck that lets him know that he’s being observed, the soft sound of footsteps and rustling. The deeper he ventures into the bowel of the warehouse, the more all of these increase. 

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Dean hums, casting his eyes to either direction. He hates this part of the hunt: the suspense, when he turns from a hunter into the hunted. He hates acting as the bait, hates even more when he doesn’t control the parameters of a hunt. This is how people in his former line of work get killed. 

Dean only gets the barest warning--the sudden electric feel of the air, the animal instinct that screams behind you behind you behind you, the harsh sound of a foot against the concrete--and then he whirls. He manages to block the first vamp with a blow of the machete. He falls back, clutching his bleeding arm and howling in outrage, which allows his companion time to rush in. 

Judging from their movements and their strength, these vamps aren't particularly old--no more than a few decades at least. They have that definite ‘stuck in the 80’s vibe’ that comes from immortality and dying in an unfortunate decade, fashion-wise. Dean takes one good hit to his stomach, but that gives him enough leverage to rise up and swing his machete in one, clean arc. 

No matter how many times he hears it, Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the sound a head makes when it hits the ground. It’s a wet thunk, hollow and heavy all at the same time. It fills Dean with a sense of satisfaction--one down, one to go, at least for him. He strains his ears, but can’t hear anything from Cas. 

No time to focus on him. Not when the second vampire faces him. Either he’s recovered from his wound or he’s pushing past the pain to attack. Whichever it is, he’s grinning at Dean, fangs bared in threat as he circles in increasingly smaller movements. 

Dean’s blood pumps in his chest, lighting him up in a way that he hasn’t felt in almost a year. This is what he was meant for, this is his purpose. The vamp lunges at him and Dean dodges the clumsy blow. 

“Seriously?” Dean doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a struggle to restrain himself. “This is what vampires have come to?” He’s not necessarily upset by the ease of the hunt, but he is a little embarrassed. At one point he’d hunted the alpha vampire. He has standards. 

The vampire meets his eyes, but then his gaze slides just to the left. Dean has just enough time to think _oh shit_, before something heavy hits his shoulders and sends him sprawling. His hand opens involuntarily and the machete skitters across the floor. It comes to a stop more than an arm’s length away. Too far to be of any help in his situation. 

Even with the weight of a vampire on his back, Dean manages to roll onto his back. Immediately, he shoves his left arm forward and into the vampire’s throat. It keeps the teeth away from his neck, but it doesn’t do anything to help his overall situation, especially when the second vampire steps on his right wrist. The pressure isn’t strong enough to break bone, but it’s enough to bring an involuntary snarl of pain to Dean’s lips. 

“This is what hunters have come to?” The tiny bones in Dean’s wrist creak in protest and his left arm is starting to tremble with effort. And all the while, even as he grunts and curses in exertion, his brain circles around the inescapable fact--if there are three vamps with him, then what happened to Cas? 

Dean winces just before he releases the tension in his left arm. He fumbles in his jeans pocket, praying that he’s quick enough, praying that the syringe didn’t break, praying that Cas is somehow ok. Teeth break the skin of his neck just as his fingers close around the glass syringe in his pocket. 

Dean yells in protest and pain as his left arm swings up. He jabs the needle into the closest piece of flesh he can find, hissing as teeth slide out of his skin. Warm blood flows down his neck, but Dean doesn’t bother trying to staunch the flow, at least not yet. He shoves the now limp vampire body off of him, while yanking his wrist out from underneath the other vampire’s foot. It hurts. It hurts like a son of a bitch, but Dean pushes through the pain and scrambles on his hands and knees to his dropped machete. 

He closes his hand around the handle just in time to turn around. His arm flies out in a graceful arc. There’s momentary resistance and then--The head hits just before the body crumples. Dean takes a moment to look over his handiwork before he walks to the drugged vampire. Starting a vamp hunt without dead man’s blood was an insane undertaking. He and Cas had hit up the mortuary just before they arrived at the warehouse. 

Drugged beyond fight, the third vampire dies with hardly a whimper. The machete falls from Dean’s hands as he finally claps a palm to the bleeding wound on the side of his neck. He allows himself three ragged pants before he bends down, through screaming muscles and aching bones, and grabs his machete. 

There were four vampires. If Cas hadn’t handled both of his...What was happening to Cas? 

“Cas?” Dean calls, all thought of stealth gone as he staggers forward. “Cas!” His voice bounces back to him, each echo mocking him with his worry and fury. He forgets the steady trickle of blood winding down his neck to soak into the collar of his shirt, he forgets all thought of caution. 

He’s not even surprised when two more vampires jump down from above, blocking his way forward. “It’s so nice when dinner comes to us,” one (Dean’s going to call her Leg-warmers, due to her poor fashion choices) says to her companion. Her friend (Dean decides to call him Mr. Face, due to a truly unfortunate arranging of features) snickers. Out of the two of them, Legwarmers apparently got all the brains. 

Dean starts to back up, holding his machete protectively in front of him. He’s out of dead man’s blood and he already knows that he holds the weaker hand of cards. “Cas!” he shouts again, to no avail. 

“And it’s nice when it looks so pretty,” Legwarmers coos. Her fangs slide out and Dean’s neck throbs in remembered pain. Mr. Face slides around to Dean’s side, just barely keeping in his peripheral vision. Dean lets him go, too weary to stop him. He knows that if Mr. Face manages to slide around behind him then it’s all over, but his brain is going fuzzy with loss of blood. 

“Cas!” he calls out again, just before Legwarmers and Mr. Face lunge forward. He swings the machete and it bites into flesh, but it doesn’t matter, not when the weight of two vampires bears him down to the floor. Dean groans as the back of his head smacks into the concrete, sending flares of pain into his already aching skull. 

A flare of panic rises as the vampires snarl, but it’s muted. He knew that this hunt was a bad idea, knew it from the second he saw it flash across the TV screen, but he brought them here anyway. Now he’s going to die, in the middle of nowhere, Vermont, a year after he was supposed to be done with hunting for good, and Cas..._Cas_\--

Legwarmer’s mouth opens in a snarl as she twists her head and Dean winces, waiting for the pain, waiting for the blood, but it doesn’t--

Weight is yanked unceremoniously off of Dean’s body and he gasps the moment his lungs are free. Stars burst in front of his vision with the renewal of oxygen and by the time that Dean pushes himself upright, Legwarmers has disappeared from his field of vision. There’s a short snarl, and then a sharp yell, and then--

Blood spatters hit the opposite wall and Legwarmer’s head flies towards the wall. Her body drops in an unceremonious heap and Dean blinks in confusion. He didn’t...So how did…

Cas steps out of the darkness. The metal of the machete gleams in all the places that aren’t covered in dark blood. Red spatters decorate his face and neck and the hems of his sleeves are sodden. There’s something wild in his eyes, something damn angelic in nature in the way that his upper lip lifts. 

It’s only a second and then Cas’ eyes flick over to Mr. Face, who decides that retreat is the better part of valor. He turns tail and tries to run. He doesn’t make it. Cas leaps forward, grace and power and wrath wrapped up in a six foot package of scruff and grumpiness, and this is the man that Dean kisses every morning, this is the man who falls asleep during Property Brothers, this is the man that he--

Cas snatches Mr. Face by the back of the shirt and drags him backwards. Mr. Face catches his balance before he hits the ground and goes on the attack. Cas ducks underneath one blow, blocks another, and kicks out at Mr. Face’s knee. The sickening sound of bone cracking fills the immediate vicinity and Mr. Face lets out a howl as he drops down. 

Cas doesn’t subscribe to the witty banter type of hunting. He’s silent, determined, terrifying. In his eyes is all the righteousness of heaven, except this time it’s layered with an edge of mortality that makes it more visceral and pressing. The machete flashes and Mr. Face totters for a moment, before he drops, headless, to the ground. 

It’s then that Cas looks at him, really _looks_ at him. The warrior is gone, sublimated into everything that makes up Cas--the bouts of depression and grief, the grumpiness, the stupid joy that makes him teach Meg how to jump into his arms from the counter. The way that his nose crinkles when he laughs. The distant, faroff look that he gets when he goes to places where Dean can’t hope to follow. 

It’s all Cas, and he _loves_ Dean, and Dean...And Dean…

“Cas,” he croaks, holding out his hand in a wordless request. 

Cas moves so quickly that Dean doesn’t register the individual steps. One moment he’s standing apart from Dean, chest heaving with exertion, and in the next moment, his hand, slick with sweat and what’s probably blood, grips Dean’s and pulls him upright. 

Strong arms pull him in tight and it’s been so long, so goddamn _long_, that Dean can just...give in. That he doesn’t have to be strong, doesn’t have to look after Sam, doesn’t have to fake it for his dad, doesn’t have to pretend like he’s a rock when all he wants to do is just fall apart. Here, with Cas’ arms wrapped around his shoulders, he can just _be_, and he takes advantage of the opportunity. 

“It’s ok,” Cas repeats, stroking over the back of Dean’s head and down his shoulders in soothing gestures. Whether Cas is trying to reassure himself or Dean remains to be seen, but either way, Dean’s not complaining. Pressed this close to Cas, he can feel the tiny tremors shaking through Cas’ body. Either Cas is freezing or he was a hell of a lot more worried than he let Dean believe. 

“Cas,” Dean gasps, pulling back just enough to look Cas in the eyes. His heart pounds with leftover adrenaline and a healthy dose of fear. He just faced down vampires, just participated in his upteenth beheading, but this, this right here might be the thing that kills him. 

“It’s all right Dean, it’s fine, I’m here, we’re ok, we’re all right.” Cas’ hands move over Dean’s cheeks, thumbs brushing the line of his brow and Dean melts into the gesture. 

“Cas, I need to...I mean I have to say…” Cas pauses, his thumb pressing into the line of Dean’s cheekbone. Even in the low light, his eyes are vivid blue, deep enough that Dean could drown in them. He wants to. He wants to spend the rest of his life pressing into Cas, so deeply that he has trouble determining where he ends and Cas begins. “I love you,” Dean blurts out. 

He never said those words to Cassie, never said them to Lisa. He’s only said them to Sam a handful of times. He thought, the first time that he said them to Cas, that they would be in their house, surrounded by a nice meal, maybe even a few flowers. Maybe they would have something low and soothing playing on the radio. He’d imagined Cas pleasantly tipsy, tiny crow’s feet appearing at the corners of his eyes. It was never like this, but, Dean realizes as Cas’ face spreads into a wide smile, it was _always_ going to be like this. 

“That’s good to hear,” Cas says, right before he kisses him. 

There’s decapitated bodies all around them and the drying blood makes Cas’ sleeve crusty. The leftover taste of adrenaline lingers in his mouth, but Cas chases it away with leisurely sweeps of his tongue. Dean’s hands can’t decide where to rest--Cas’ back, his sides, his shoulders, his hair. He tries them all, cataloguing the various sounds Cas makes as he maps his body. Warmth explodes in Dean’s body and it’s like Cas is burying into him, filling the spaces in him that were empty and barren. 

“Home,” Dean finally pants, once he manages to tear himself away from Cas’ lips long enough to speak. “Home, home, _jesus fuck_ Cas, let’s go home, please?”

“Fine,” Cas says, his voice as rough as his hands are gentle. He strokes over Dean’s cheeks and down his throat, fingers tracing abstract designs along Dean’s skin. “Fine, let’s go, Dean, let’s go--”

They stumble forward, tripping into and around each other. Dean crowds into Cas. He wants to touch every part of him, fears being apart from him for even the smallest moment. This must be what addicts feel, this uncontrollable urge to touch, to lose himself in Cas. He’d feel ashamed of himself if Cas weren’t in the same dilemma. 

The November air is a slice of cold that bites through Dean’s jacket and down to his skin. The only points of warmth are the places where his body touches Cas’ and those...those are on fire. Dean turns to Cas and pulls him closer, closer, always closer, hands on Cas’ face, fingers stroking through his hair, and there’s blood on Cas’ face, which should be grosser than it actually is, but Dean doesn’t care, not when Cas licks into his mouth like he’s planting a damn flag. 

“Oh my god Cas, we need to get home, get in the damn car, please, please, _please_ get in the car.” Dean pants the words against Cas’ lips, bites them into the soft flesh. Cas whines at the nip of Dean’s teeth and his blunt fingernails dig into the nape of Dean’s neck. “Car, car, _goddamnit Cas_, get to the--” Bright lights flash into Dean’s eyes and he yelps in surprise, throwing his arm over his eyes. 

“What is...Sam? Jack?” Cas jerks away from him and Dean shivers at the loss of his heat. 

“Um...yeah. We’re here to save you,” and son of a bitch, that’s definitely Sam’s voice. Sam, his brother. Sam, his brother, who saw him trying to map out Cas’ tonsils. 

“Hey Dean! Hey Cas!” And that’s Jack, their psuedo-son, who just saw his two dads humping each other. 

Dean is acutely aware of the stubble burn on his lips and chin, as well as the sluggish trickle of blood still running down his neck. He would blush but it’s a little late for that. 

“Hi Jack,” Dean returns. He forces half an arm’s length between himself and Cas, though it feels like ripping out his cuticles to do so. “You guys uh, you guys hustled to get here.” 

“Yeah,” Sam says. He hasn’t turned the headlights of the car off yet, which forces Dean to squint into the light. “You made it seem like there was some urgency involved.” 

He doesn’t sound horrified. No, it’s worse. He sounds _amused_. Oh, this is bad. Forty years of brotherly torment are coming due right at this moment, and Dean’s about to feel his karmic reward. 

“Well, there was. But we um, we took care of it.”

“I can see that,” Sam answers, a definite thread of amusement winding through his voice. “Look, we got a hotel room for the night (_We did_? Jack asks with some confusion), so we’re just going to head back there. We’ll catch up with you tomorrow morning.” Jack and Cas might miss the implication in Sam’s words, but it hits Dean over the head like an unsubtle anvil. 

“Yeah, all right,” he mumbles, and before Sam has the chance to say anything else, Dean grabs Cas’ sleeve and yanks him towards the Impala. 

“Come on Cas, let’s go home,” Dean says, and it’s only after they’re both in the Impala and on the road that the words really sink into him. 

_Home_.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	20. we can finally be alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Anticipation curls in Castiel’s belly as they round the road for the house. He knows what he promised Dean and Dean seemed more than amenable to it, if the fervor of his embrace was anything to judge by. He supposes that he should feel worried or anxious, but he’s been waiting so long for this, for _anything_, that all he can feel is the quick, tight twist of excitement. 

Dean’s hand rests on the seat beside him, fingers tapping rhythmically. Little but little, Castiel inches his hand over, until his pinky can curl around Dean’s index finger. Dean pauses, then twists his hand so that Castiel’s fingers can slide between his. A quick flash of moonlight shows Dean’s small, private grin. 

Castiel’s heart jumps and skitters in his chest. The Impala comes to a stop in front of the house with a low crunch of gravel. 

Surprisingly, for all their need and urgency, they make it into the house with little fanfare. Meg attempts to waylay them, her yowls confused and distressed at the smell of blood and death wafting off their clothes, but Castiel placates her with a quick pat and a shove to the living room. She settles on the couch, her eyes glowing in the darkness as Dean tugs at his wrist and hauls him towards the stairs. Castiel falls into step behind Dean. For all that he pulled Dean out of hell, for all that he led armies, he’s come to terms with the idea that he would willingly follow Dean into the depths of perdition. 

It’s not until they reach their bedroom that Dean turns to him, hunger and heat flaring in the depths of his eyes. His hands are greedy and his mouth curves into a grin. It costs Castiel to step back and put his hand on Dean’s chest, but he does. 

“Shower,” he says, forcing his voice not to quaver. “I’m covered in blood and you need to be taken care of.” He nods towards Dean’s neck. While the bite isn’t deep, he would still rest better with it bandaged. 

Dean’s shoulders slump, but even his stubbornness has to cave in the face of logic. “Fine,” he snarls. Castiel thinks that he might have won, but Dean, as always, surprises him. “But you’re coming with me.” He loops his fingers in Castiel’s belt loops and tugs him forward. Castiel stumbles, but his feet catch up faster than his brain. 

“Hell yes,” Castiel whispers, tripping over his toes to follow Dean into the bathroom. 

He’s unaware of Dean’s shower routines; he’s never invaded Dean’s privacy to that extent. But he’s fairly certain that showers usually start with getting undressed, not with twisting the knob of the hot water so far that steam billows through the room. Castiel sighs as heat blossoms over his skin, but that heat is nothing compared to the inferno which flickers over him when Dean’s heavy-lidded eyes drift over his frame. 

They move towards each other like figures caught in a dream. Dean’s hands reach up and drift over Castiel’s brow, down to his cheek and jawline. Castiel leans into the touch, his eyelashes fluttering shut as Dean’s thumb traces the line of his lips. His hands, bereft of purpose, latch onto Dean’s hips. His fingers inch forward until he feels the sweet siren call of skin. 

“Cas,” Dean breathes, reverence and awe in the single syllable. It’s encouragement and anticipation all at once, and it gives Castiel enough courage to hook his fingers underneath the hem of Dean’s shirt and pull upwards. 

Dean never breaks eye contact with Castiel as he works his shirt up past his stomach, to under his armpits. Dean lifts his arms and Castiel slides his shirt off, letting it flutter down to the ground. Bare to the waist, Dean surveys Castiel with the wonder that the first humans had when they witnessed the Northern Lights painted across the sky. 

Castiel’s hand is shaking as he lifts it to Dean’s chest. The skin is warm underneath his palm and if he presses hard enough, he can feel Dean’s heartbeat. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, caught in a dizzying spiral of lust and awe. “I always thought so. From the first moment I saw the glow of your soul, you were always so beautiful.” 

“Oh Jesus Christ Cas, come here,” Dean breathes, and then his lips are on Castiel’s, passion and fury and devotion in every brush of skin. Castiel’s human brain is poorly equipped to handle the glory that is Dean Winchester in his element and he can only gasp into Dean’s mouth, hands gripping the spurs of his hips to pull Dean closer. 

Dean’s hands work at Castiel’s shirt and Castiel lifts his arms, separating from Dean only as long as it takes for Dean to pull his shirt off and away. Then he’s back, grasping at Dean with a greediness that makes the Seven Deadlies look tame. 

“Fuck Cas, look at you,” Dean whispers, dragging his nails in long strokes over Castiel’s spine. “So fucking gorgeous.” The trail of wet, soft kisses that Dean lays on his neck makes Castiel groan and tilt his head backward. “Want you so bad.” Two strong hands land at the fastening of his jeans and Dean dares to dip his fingers inside, so that his fingers brush the tender skin of Castiel’s lower belly. “Please?”

“Oh God,” Castiel groans, “oh Dean, _please_.” 

For all the buildup that humans put on nudity, it’s startlingly anti-climatic when his jeans hit the ground with a soft thump. Dean pushes at the elastic waistband of his boxers, easing them over the swell of his buttocks and the aching hardness between his legs. Castiel shudders, pleasure chasing itself through his nerve endings to light his body on fire. 

Dean’s eyes travel over him in a leisurely journey that sets Castiel to panting. “Look at you,” Dean murmurs, tracing his fingers over the ladder of his ribs down to his waist. “Fuck Cas.” 

Dean’s hands shake when they slide around the back of his neck to pull him into a kiss that feels like a prayer. Castiel understands worship--he listened to countless pleas and praises lifted to a god that could never bother himself to answer, he joined hosannas that created the world. But, for the first time, as Dean’s lips touch his and Dean whispers _Love you_ into his mouth like a revelation, Castiel finally understands devotion. 

-_-_-_-_-_-

Cas is out to kill him. That’s the only explanation. Cas is secretly some kind of sleeper agent, sent by whatever monster wants him dead, and he’s just waiting for the moment when Dean is at his weakest. 

If he’s not at his weakest as the last of Cas’ clothing falls away, then it’s a pretty damn close thing. 

Dean blinks and clears his mind from the refrain of _skin skin skin skin_ that started the moment that all that lovely, tawny body was revealed to him. He runs his hands over Cas’ body lightly, half-afraid that he’ll disappear. 

Cas’ hands land on Dean’s waist, thumbs stroking over the skin of his hips. “Dean, can I…? I need to...please Dean, I want to see you,” Cas says, the words stuttering out of him in increasingly breathy pleas. 

“Please, come on gorgeous,” Dean encourages. His heart, so reliable for forty years, makes a sudden bid for freedom, hammering at the barrier of his sternum. 

It’s all a blur in Dean’s mind from that point on--Cas’ hands stroking over his sides, down to his hips, Cas’ nimble fingers working at the fastenings of his pants. The way that the steam feels against his bare skin. The solid, hard line of Cas’ body against his. The unembarrassed press of Cas’ erection against his hip and his own responding hardness. Cas saws in a ragged breath and Dean matches it, fingernails dragging in short furrows down Cas’ back and shoulders. 

Cas says something, low and urgent in his ear, and it takes a few repetitions for Dean to parse his words. “Your neck, we need to...your neck.” 

“Fuck it, shower first,” Dean groans, and thankfully Cas acquiesces. 

They step into the warm spray of the shower. Water pounds against Dean’s skin, washing away the filth of the night. Blood and dirt swirls around their feet before it disappears down the drain, but Dean only has eyes for Cas. His world shrinks to the other man: his dark hair plastered to his skull, the heavy-lidded eyes peering at him from underneath clumped lashes, the plump lips parted as he stares at Dean. 

Dean shivers at the soapy rag Cas drags over his skin. The gentleness of his movements contrasts with the rough material of the cloth, sparking tiny moans from Dean’s mouth. The lower down his body Cas moves, the louder Dean’s moans grow, until they fill the small space of the shower. 

Dean realizes that Cas is murmuring endearments, barely audible over the sound of the water. _Beautiful_, Cas calls him, _extraordinary_. Heat prickles behind Dean’s eyes and a dampness that has nothing to do with the water lurks around his eyes.

_I’ve loved you since I pulled your soul out of Hell_, Cas says. 

_I loved you before I knew what love was_. 

“Cas,” Dean sobs as Cas’ soap slick fingers close around him. “Cas, Cas. Oh fuck, Cas baby, _please_,” he begs, not even sure what he’s begging for. Cas’ hand is a slick tunnel and Dean’s hips roll into it. Firework pleasure explodes underneath his skin and behind his eyelids and it’s too much. “Stop Cas, stop. I’m gonna...I don’t wanna…” 

Cas releases him after another slow stroke and Dean shudders in loss and relief alike. Arousal still boils underneath his skin as Cas cleans his thighs with the cloth, but Dean can push it to the back of his mind until it’s no longer an urgent, insistent need. 

Dean takes the washcloth from Cas and resoaps it and then revenge is sweet, sweet, sweet. He moves over Cas’ body in leisurely circles, brushing his thumb over a pert nipple before he rubs at Cas’ chest. Dean drinks in the sound of gasps and moans, and revels in the blissful expression on Cas’ face. 

When he closes his fingers around Cas’ cock, Cas’ hips buck forward into Dean’s grip. Cas curves forward into him, forehead resting on Dean’s shoulder. His warm breath puffs against Dean’s damp skin before the faint impression of teeth score over his skin. _Never thought I’d get this_, Cas confesses, his voice soft and broken. It almost breaks Dean’s heart. 

“I’ve got you baby. I’ve got you,” Dean says, nosing through Cas’ damp hair. “I’ve got you.” He repeats the words until they mingle into one long soothing noise of reassurance. 

He works at Cas until he’s shivering and smothering his tiny chokes and sobs against Dean’s shoulders. The sound that Cas makes when Dean pulls his hand away strikes right at the heart of him. “Bed,” Dean says, more sure of this than anything else in his life. “Please Cas.”

“Your neck,” Cas mutters, once he’s capable of forming words. “We need to take care of your neck.” 

Dean has never cared less about anything, but Cas’ forehead is starting to knit in the stubborn pattern that Dean knows so well. Once those lines settle into his skin there’s no dealing with him, so after the shower, Dean settles his bare ass on the chilly lid of the toilet. Cas wraps a towel around his waist, but it’s a perfunctory gesture, meant for comfort instead of modesty. His face settles into a frown of concentration as he dabs at the wound on Dean’s neck. Even the sting of the antiseptic is lessened as Dean feasts his eyes on the lean lines of Cas’ chest. 

“Wanna taste you,” he says, not realizing that he’s speaking aloud until the words come out of his mouth. Cas’ hand jerks against his skin and Dean can’t bother to hide his grin. 

“You’re cute when you blush,” he continues, watching pink creep up Cas’ chest and neck. 

“Dean,” Cas says, his voice grave, “perhaps you’re confused. I’m what humans like to call a ‘sure thing’.” Bless him, he even does the finger quotes. “There’s no need to flatter me.” 

“It’s not flattery,” Dean murmurs, curving his hands around Cas’ hips. A flick of his fingers sends the towel fluttering to the ground. “I just never thought I’d get a chance to say it.” 

Cas’ flush deepens, but the way that his fingers curl around the back of Dean’s neck feels like a promise. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Dean is beautiful. 

He’s beautiful in the morning when he’s still sleep-rumpled and drowsy, he’s beautiful in the afternoon when sweat beads along his forehead and his skin gleams in the sun, and he’s beautiful at night when his eyes start to lose the fight with gravity and his lashes fan dark on his cheek. 

And he’s beautiful now, bare skin almost glowing in the low light, stretched across their bed. Castiel can’t help but lick his lips as he lowers himself beside Dean. He stays a breath away; to touch Dean’s skin with his would kill him. Instead he traces his finger down Dean’s chest as he kisses him. 

The sound Dean makes into his mouth is low and desperate and it sparks a fire in Castiel’s brain. Within seconds their careful distance is obliterated, and he nearly sobs at the intoxicating feel of skin sliding against skin. His erection, which had flagged since the shower, returns with a vengeance, and it strains hard and aching, up to his belly. 

There’s so much he wants to do. He wants to touch every part of Dean’s body and taste him with his tongue. He wants to swallow him down and feel the hot flood of his seed in his mouth. He wants to spread Dean open and lick him until he’s wet and begging. He wants to sink into his tight heat and feel the clench of Dean’s body around him. He wants Dean inside him. He _wants_, with a fury and fervor that leaves him dizzy. 

“You ok?” Dean asks, pulling away for the briefest moment. “You still--”

“Always,” Cas says, pressing a hard kiss to Dean’s mouth. _Always_, he repeats silently, nipping down Dean’s throat to his chest. 

He wants. He will always, _always_ want Dean, in any way and form that he can get him. But he has time. They have all the time in the world. 

With that realization snuggled close to his heart, Castiel slows his journey down Dean’s body. He licks and sucks at his nipples and relishes in the sharp gasps from above him. Dean’s bowed legs spread wide and Castiel makes a home for himself there. 

Dean’s erection, Dean’s cock, is in front of his face, slick and inviting. Castiel’s mouth goes dry at the sight and the invitation, but he lingers too long. Dean’s fingers card through his hair to curve around the back of his skull--not pushing, but reassuring. 

“You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to--oh, oh, _fuck Cas_\--”

The taste of Dean explodes across his tongue as Castiel closes his lips around the swollen head. It’s simultaneously identical and wildly different from his dreams. There’s so much to catalogue--the taste, the sound of Dean’s gasps and pants, the sight of his toes curling into the mattress, the tug of fingers in his hair--It’s too much. If he were still an angel then he might be able to parse every sensation and examine them separately, but he’s only human. He can only hold on for the ride and pray that he gets to repeat it an infinite number of times. He already knows that this will never become old. 

Saliva dribbles out the corner of his lips as Castiel starts to bob his head. He’d thought, in the spare moments that he let himself think of this, that he might find this debasing or repulsive, but this is bliss. Dean against his tongue, Dean’s moans in his ears, the sight of Dean stretched out in front of him...Everything in his world is _Dean Dean Dean_ and Castiel revels in it. 

He trails his mouth down further, past Dean’s testicles, drawn up tight against his body, to the stretch of skin behind them, then to the tightly furled ring of muscle. Everything down here is darker, muskier, and the scent of _Dean_ surrounds him. Castiel feels his way by touch, scent, and sound, like a blind penitent. His tongue flicks over Dean’s entrance. Against his shoulders, he feels Dean’s legs stiffen, only to spread wide, allowing him easier access. A hand cards through his hair, urgency in the grip and, with a low moan, Castiel presses closer. He works at Dean until spit runs down his chin, until his jaw aches with the constant motion, until Dean moves underneath him in gentle undulations. Gasps and praise fall in a litany from his mouth, mingled with curses, and between the hands cupping the curve of his head and the thighs pressed close around him, Castiel is surrounded. It’s glorious, the way that Dean opens for him as he presses his tongue forward, the way that Dean’s spine arches, and if he could, then Castiel would live here in this moment, for the rest of time. 

A hand fumbles at his and Castiel spreads his fingers wide, waiting for the pressure of Dean’s hand to surround his. A twinge of disappointment hits his chest when his hand remains cold and empty, only to be replaced by the swoop and rise of delighted disbelief when he sees what Dean’s shoved into his hands. 

He pulls away from Dean, wiping at his spit-slick chin with the back of his hand. When he speaks, Castiel barely recognizes the sound of his own voice. It’s hoarse, wrecked, and Castiel loves it. “Are you sure? We can…”

“Dumbass,” Dean croaks, managing a dazed grin as he props himself up on his elbows to look down the length of his body, “if I wasn’t sure then I wouldn’t have given it to you.” When Castiel hesitates, Dean lets his legs spread open wider and cants his hips in invitation. “C’mon Cas, please,” he breathes. 

At the sound of the bottle opening, Dean’s eyes flutter shut. The sound he makes when Castiel’s slick finger circles the tightly furled muscle of his entrance is divine. It punches Castiel in the gut and he never recovers. Not when Dean clenches around the intrusion, not when he helplessly presses kisses to the soft part of Dean’s lower stomach, not when he moves three fingers smoothly in and out of Dean. 

He had countless centuries to observe human love-making rituals. He understood the technicalities of the process. When he became human, he thought he understood the physicality of it. There was pleasure to be had in another’s body, and Castiel thought that he knew why so many humans spent so much of their short existences in the fruitless search for companionship. 

He knew _nothing_. 

Dean’s eyes are glassy when Castiel pulls his hand free. He wipes it on the sheets, heedless of the mess he’s creating. He touches Dean’s face with a shaking hand and Dean turns his head into the touch to press a soft kiss to his palm. 

“Dean,” he says, helplessly. “Dean.” 

“Cas, Cas please,” Dean says, his voice softer than Castiel’s ever heard. “I need you.” 

Castiel understands, though he feels that _need_ is a paltry word for the all-encompassing, yawning chasm of desire growing in him. “Don’t we need some sort of...protection?” he finishes, blushing absurdly. 

Dean laughs. The sound takes years off him, until he’s as young as the boy he never got to be. “It’s not like you’re going to get me pregnant,” he says, carding his fingers through Castiel’s hair as he presses soft kisses to his mouth. “And neither one of us has any diseases. You're not planning on sleeping around, are you?” Despite the humor in his eyes and voice, there's vulnerability lurking in the depths of Dean's expression.

“No,” Castiel says immediately, recoiling at the thought. “No.” He softens as he looks at Dean, bare and unguarded, strong and beautiful. “There’s only you. Only ever you,” he says, just in case Dean was in doubt. 

Dean’s eyes turn misty as he presses his forehead to Castiel’s. “Me too,” he says finally, voice rough. “I mean...for you. For me. There’s…” 

Castiel kisses away the frustrated look on Dean’s face and swallows his irritated huff. Here, between them, at least for this night, he doesn’t want there to be anything else other than love. 

The press of his body into Dean’s is a revelation in human form. It’s galaxies colliding and collapsing in on themselves, it’s the creation of the earth and the continents separating. But the soft look in Dean’s eye, the dampness under his eyes, the way that he looks at Cas like other people look at sunrises, their history and their future colliding into this one moment--

For the briefest moment, Castiel can fly again. 

The moment passes, as moments do, but the way that their bodies move together is still a miracle put into motion. Dean’s hands clutch at Castiel’s shoulders and pull him closer until Castiel is pressed against every part of him. Castiel pants into the curve of Dean’s neck as his hips move of their own volition, following a rhythm as ceaseless as the lapping of waves at the ocean shore. 

Pleasure builds in his body and climbs ever higher. Castiel’s hips snap forward, drawing a low groan out of Dean. Fingernails dig into the skin of his back and Castiel sobs into the hollow of Dean’s throat. “Dean,” he slurs, panting and biting kisses into Dean’s skin. “Dean, I don’t think that I can…”

He’s not sure what he means to say, but in the end it doesn’t matter. “Me too,” Dean says, his muscles trembling with the strain of hovering on the edge. “Oh god, me too Cas. Touch me, touch me _please_.” 

He doesn’t move in the most coordinated of motions, but one of his hands closes around Dean’s flesh and strokes him in choppy, uneven waves. He can feel Dean tighten around him and Castiel can’t, he _can’t_…

“Let go,” Dean tells him, twisting his fingers in his hair. “Come on Cas, let go. I’ve got you, it’s ok, I’ve got you.”

Castiel witnessed the creation of the Himalayas, saw how earth slammed into itself and crumpled and twisted upwards like it was reaching towards the sky. He saw the Milky Way galaxy burst into life, atoms reacting in a violent twist and explosion. He witnessed celestial battles that would melt the eyes out of mortals’ heads. But nothing in his existence can compare to the first time when he comes in Dean’s body, a desperate low cry falling from his lips, body trembling, his eyes fixed on the verdant green of Dean’s eyes, Dean murmuring _I’ve got you, I’ve got you_, and the peace which comes from finally believing it. 

Castiel collapses, heedless of his weight on Dean’s body. Dean never complains, just absorbs the added burden with grace. In fact, his hands pull Castiel closer, which reminds Castiel of unfinished business. It doesn’t take much--a squeeze of his hand and a few uncoordinated jerks of his hand and that’s…

Dean comes like a revelation, like a burning bush in the middle of the desert, like a trumpet blast shattering a city’s walls. He comes like the ringing of thousands of voices singing _glory glory glory_, like truth and ecstasy unveiled on a clear winter’s night with only stars, shepherds, and sheep for witnesses. 

Castiel only realizes that he’s shaking when Dean’s hands soothe his body into stillness. He still feels the aftermath coursing through his body and he doesn’t dare speak for fear of shattering the fragile silence. Dean holds him through it all, cradling the back of his head while he traces nonsensical patterns over Castiel’s back. 

They remain in the silence, bodies plastered together even through the drying mess of fluids. When Dean speaks, Castiel expects words of reverence and devotion. 

“Ok, the other reason why people wear condoms is so they don’t have an ass full of jizz.” 

The laugh explodes out of Castiel without his permission. Having escaped, it takes full advantage of its freedom and stretches to fill the confines of their bedroom. Laughter rolls through Castiel until his muscles ache, until he’s breathless and gasping. Under him, Dean matches his glee, his face bright and joyful in a way that Castiel didn’t think he could achieve. 

Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s body and rolls them away from the damp impressions of their bodies to the other side of the bed. Castiel rolls with him, limbs akimbo, still laughing, even as he lands on his side. 

This is what he was looking for, he realizes, as he starts to fight the oncoming wave of exhaustion. For years he traveled, for years he fought, for years he yearned and what he wanted was...It was…

Here, inside the safe circle of Dean’s arms, with Dean’s nose brushing against his in repeated caresses, here in the house they built and the bed they molded...Here, Castiel has finally come home. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	21. come with me, together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road always leads the same place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've stuck all this way with me, then bless you. From the bottom of my soul, bless you and thank you.

*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

_ **epilogue-- one year later** _

Dawn comes late and weak in December. After last winter, Dean thought that he would be accustomed to the cold, like it was something he could force his body to adapt to, but it’s still just _damn_ cold. If he were a little richer and a lot more pathetic, he would suggest to Cas that they take off down south for the winter. Probably not Florida--while retired, Dean’s not quite that version of old white man, but somewhere warm. Maybe New Orleans, where he can dress Cas up in all sorts of weird outfits and they can drink margaritas and kiss in the middle of the street. Maybe somewhere in Texas where he can indulge his fetish and put Cas in a ten-gallon hat and sit him on the back of a horse. Somehow, Dean knows that Cas would be a natural at it, would go soaring over creeks and bushes without getting a single hair out of place. 

But, he thinks, as he shuffles to be closer to Cas, this is nice too. Huddling together for warmth, the cocoon that their bodies make in the middle of the night. Even the damn cat, curled up at the foot of their bed makes for a pretty sight. Dean eventually lost the battle against keeping Meg out of the bedroom, like he knew he was going to. At least Rowena can cast a cleansing charm on the house that keeps his allergies happy. Turns out that there are a few fringe benefits to having a three-hundred year old witch being invested in your well-being. 

Dean burrows his nose into Cas’ hair and breathes in the scent of it. He smells like shampoo and their soap, and the particular kind of sleep-stale scent that comes from a night of hard, good rest. God, he really is domesticated, he thinks, but he can’t complain, not when it means that he gets to curl closer to Cas, slotting his knees underneath Cas’. 

They switch back and forth on spoons--sometimes Dean needs to be held, needs two strong arms to weigh him down and remind him that he’s part of this world. He needs to be surrounded, to feel like Cas is there and he’s not leaving, no matter what. But in the same breath, sometimes Dean needs something to cling to, something to pull close to him. Sometimes he needs to act as an anchor, tethering Cas to the earth, to him. He needs to feel the surety of that body in his arms, the tangible reminder of everything that they’ve been through. 

Cas hasn’t ever expressed a preference. He just likes the contact, Dean thinks, and is perfectly capable of molding himself to whatever form Dean needs him to be. 

Dean sighs in contentment as he nuzzles closer. His morning wood makes itself known as he presses against Cas’ lower back. It’s nothing urgent, certainly nothing that requires immediate action, but the friction is nice. 

“Dean,” Cas groans, and Dean winces. 

The thing is, Dean _loves_ morning sex. He loves the sloppy, uncoordinated nature of it, loves the slow, languid pace. Loves how sometimes you don’t even bother to get undressed for it, you just shove aside the important stuff and concentrate on what feels good. There’s no acrobatics and no real engineering that goes into a good round of lazy, morning sex. There’s just you, your partner, and getting off. 

Cas on the other hand? Except for a few, rare occasions, Cas _hates_ morning sex. He hates everything to do with mornings, and Dean has learned, through painful experimentation, that 98% of his attempts to initiate morning sex end in the exactly the same way: a swat to whatever part of Dean’s body is easiest to reach, the immediate removal of all things Cas from his vicinity, and usually a muffled _Fuck off Dean_ as Cas mashes his face back into the pillows. 

But, wonder of wonders, this looks like it’s going to be the oft-coveted but rarely achieved 2% of the time when Cas wakes up mostly human. He rolls his hips back into Dean’s, shimmying so that their bodies end up in roughly the right positions. 

“Morning babe,” Dean coos against the warm skin of Cas’ neck. He takes his chances and drops a kiss to the skin, grinning when Cas arches his neck to allow him more access. “You’re feeling good today,” Dean notes, grinding forward. 

Cas grunts, the most affirmation that he’ll give Dean. “Don’t ruin it,” he warns, though the bite is lessened by the breathiness of his tone as Dean sneaks a hand below the waistband of his sweats. 

It’s been a year. A year of living with Cas, of sleeping with him, of getting to know him in the Biblical sense. And Dean had been worried, in the darkest parts of his heart, that maybe he would get tired of it. That maybe what had him hooked was just the longing of the unknown and forbidden, and that once it became known and permissible, that he would lose interest. 

That was a big fucking lie. 

Because this, right here? Cas’ tiny grunts, the quick shift of his hips, the way that one hand clutches at Dean’s forearm while the other reaches back to grip at his flank? The arch of his back and the curve of his neck? Yeah, those are never going to grow old for him. What Dean has now is _experience_. He knows exactly how to flick his thumb over the head of Cas’ cock and he knows exactly where to place his lips to make sure that Cas goes nuts. He’s practiced enough to be able to shuffle his and Cas’ pants down one-handed, only breaking contact for the briefest of moments. 

Cas lets out a long, low sigh when Dean’s cock slides in the space between his legs. Dean echoes the sound as he starts to thrust, his fingers working over Cas as he presses sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to his shoulders and neck. 

“Fuck,” he pants, after what’s really too short of a time, “fuck Cas, I think that I’m going to...going to…” 

“Me too,” Cas breathlessly answers, tightening his thighs around Dean. “Love you, love you--”

Dean would joke that the words don't count when one of their dicks is out, but the truth is that Cas never comes without telling Dean how much he loves him, and the words incite a Pavlovian response in Dean. Before he gives himself permission he’s spilling between Cas’ legs, gasping out his release into the soft hairs at the nape of Cas’ neck. 

Cas comes after him, moaning low and deep into the meat of Dean’s arm as he spurts over Dean’s knuckles and the sheets. Dean strokes him until Cas whimpers, hips shifting restlessly away from his touch. 

Coasting on afterglow, Dean pulls Cas close to him. “We should do this more often,” he murmurs. 

Cas grunts. For a person who just had a pretty good orgasm, it’s not a happy sound. “Says you. You’re not the one who has to change the sheets and wash them without Sam and Jack figuring out why.” 

“Pretty sure that they’ve figured out that something’s happening between us. Besides, Sam deserves it.” Dean stifles his yawn against Cas’ shoulder. “He’s been a dick lately.” Technically untrue--Sam is always a bit of a dick, but Dean’s sure that his little brother has done something that deserves this particular brand of punishment. 

“And I want to go back to sleep but I can’t because I’m sticky.” There’s the early morning grumpiness that Dean knows and loves. “So I have to get up, take a shower, and then change the sheets. And by then I won’t even feel like going back to bed.” 

Dean hums, his brain still caught up on the bit about showering. “Want company?”

“Can you keep your hands to yourself?” 

Dean lets his hand roam, tracing the muscles of Cas’ stomach. “Probably not.” 

Cas grunts before twisting back to kiss him. “Fine. But don’t be distracting or you’re out.” 

Dean smirks against Cas’ mouth. “Babe, I’m always distracting.”

With a low, irritated sound, Cas rolls out of bed, stepping out of his ruined sweats on his way to the door. At the sight of his bare body, Dean’s mouth goes dry. If he were twenty years younger...Maybe this would end a different way. His body can’t quite keep up with the demands that his imagination places on it, and mostly, Dean’s all right with that. Still. 

Dean catches up to Cas just before he walks out the door. He settles his hands on Cas’ hips and licks into his mouth, heedless of his morning-sour breath. Cas hums into his mouth, curving one arm around his shoulders to pull him closer. They part and Dean doesn’t even balk at pushing his nose into Cas’. It’s disgusting, and married, and he’s been domesticated beyond his wildest dreams. 

He loves it, loves Cas. 

“Good job keeping your hands to yourself,” Cas comments. A grin breaks through the haze in his eyes, before he turns and strides, naked, into the bathroom. Even bare-assed, Cas manages to look dignified. He looks a little less dignified when Dean snaps a towel at his ass. 

“Are you a child,” Cas says flatly, but the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“Definitely not,” Dean replies, voice heavy with suggestion as he sidles closer. He wraps an arm around Cas’ waist while stroking the back of his finger down his cheek. “You wanna see?”

“In your dreams.” Cas’ voice makes the Sahara look damp by comparison. 

Yeah, Cas is an asshole in the morning. Yeah, he refuses morning sex more often than not and when he does indulge, his first thought afterwards is about the increased number of chores. Yeah, he’s blunt about reminding Dean about their refractory periods, and sometimes, Dean’s convinced that he’s allergic to fun. 

But, he thinks, as Cas’ hands draw him in underneath the hot spray, Cas is also kind, generous, and, once you get to know him, a pretty funny guy. Cas looks good in a pair of jeans and a flannel and has a damn good eye for woodworking. Cas is one of the smartest guys he knows. Cas is...he’s Cas. That’s enough for Dean. It’s always been enough. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_ **Christmas** _

The sharp scent of evergreen floats through the first floor of the house, mingling with the scents of fresh baking pastries drifting from the kitchen. Castiel breathes deep, letting the familiar smell settle him. He’s happy that their loved ones are all arriving shortly, he really is, but--

“Cas, babe, I asked for those baking sheets like five minutes ago! Did you have to make the damn things?”

But it’s Christmas, and for the first time, they have confirmed guests for the holidays: Donna, Jody, and Rowena are all arriving within the week, and between them and the house’s four permanent residents, they’ll finally have a full house. Dean has responded to the impending arrivals by cooking, baking, and cleaning almost non-stop and demanding that everyone does the same. He’s a harsh taskmaster, to put it mildly. Sam calls him a diva and Jack just smiles uncomfortably, but to Castiel this version of Dean is the closest thing to a demon that his beloved could ever be (including the time when he actually was a demon). 

“I had to find them,” Castiel says, drawing on the patience of centuries as he steps into the kitchen. “Your system of organization leaves something to be desired.” 

Dean, the love of his very long life, glares at him, before snatching the baking sheets out of his hands. “You think that’s effective? Blaming me for everything that goes wrong?” His voice is a low dangerous hiss, and in the past, that would have been a clear warning, but Castiel lives his life by different rules these days. 

“I’m not blaming you, I’m just saying that if you want items found quickly, you should really have an effective way of organizing things. You can start by actually attempting to organize things.” 

The best part is, Castiel knows he’s right and so does Dean. Which is why, after narrowing his eyes and curling his lip, Dean turns away with a dismissive snort. Maybe they’ll rearrange their cabinets. Probably not, but at least Castiel has made his objection known. 

“I thought you were going to string the lights on the porch,” Dean says. He doesn’t turn around; too engrossed with dishing out the exact right amount of dough onto the sheets to bother with social niceties. 

“I was,” Castiel allows, sidling onto a stool. His bare feet are cold and he should probably put on shoes or at the very least socks, but he likes the feel of the floor and ground on the soles of his feet. It keeps him anchored and tethered, makes him feel like he’s part of the earth instead of above it. “But Jack and Sam wanted to try their hands at it.” 

A tiny snort escapes Dean before he has the chance to smother it. “In other words, Jack decided that he was going to try and Sam rescued him before he could kill himself?”

“I don’t think it would have gotten quite that far,” Castiel says, though upon further reflection, he allows that the situation might have gotten dire if Sam hadn’t stepped in. 

Dean puts his trays of cookies in the oven. Once he sets the timer, he checks the fridge. Whatever he’s looking for, he must not find, as he straightens up with a low, frustrated growl. “Dammit Cas, why didn’t you tell me that we’re out of vanilla?” 

Cas blinks slowly. “Because I didn’t know?” he answers finally, when it becomes clear that standing silently is not an option. Dean should know this. While Castiel’s culinary expertise has increased in the past year, he still hasn’t stepped much beyond the arena of breakfast foods, macaroni and cheese, and the occasional salad. Anything involving vanilla is beyond his capabilities. 

“Yeah, all right.” Dean runs a hand through his hair. It’s not the first time he’s done so--his hair is already stiff with flour and what looks like possible egg particles. There’s a smear of flour high on Dean’s cheekbone and his clothes are dusted with detritus from his kitchen forays. He’s been snappish for days, to the point where he’s been tossing and turning in his sleep. Last night he actually kicked Castiel, a strong blow right on the shin, that knocked him out of a sound sleep. 

Castiel loves him. 

“Get your things,” he tells Dean, sliding off the stool. 

“Cas, I’ve got the cookies in the oven--”

“Jack is perfectly capable of pulling a batch of cookies out of the oven. And even if he doesn’t, the world won’t end. But,” Castiel says as he reaches up to wipe off the smear of flour from Dean’s cheek, “I might just end you if you keep on acting this way.” 

“Yeah?” Dean’s tone is fighting so hard to stay belligerent, but there’s a smile lurking in his eyes. “You’ve got some godawful dirty talk.” 

“Get your things and get in the car. We’re going to the store for vanilla.” 

Dean doesn’t bother arguing. He heads out to find his shoes and jacket, which gives Castiel enough time to find Jack and tell him to listen out for the timer. He also reminds Jack that oven mitts need to be worn when taking hot items out of the oven. Not that Jack will be hurt, but it’s a little disconcerting to see him handling 350+ degree items with his bare hands. 

Dean is out by the Impala when Castiel walks outside. He stamps his feet to ward off the chill creeping into his blood, while surveying the land outside the house. Castiel already knows that Dean wants to build a free-standing garage with enough room to house the Impala as well as work on the occasional project. Several of the town’s residents have noticed the immaculate condition of Baby and have already commissioned Dean to work on their vehicles as well. Dean tries to hide his satisfaction at their compliments and interests, but Castiel notices how the soft glow of pride lingers in his eyes long after they leave. 

“Anything else other than vanilla we need to pick up?” Dean asks as he slides into the front seat. 

Castiel rolls his eyes, the gesture rife with affection. “I’m sure that you’ll find something,” he answers, his lingering sigh mingling with the cough and roar of the Impala. 

True to form, Dean turns a simple trip into an expedition as he engages in a staring match with spices and baking supplies. He runs several recipes by Castiel, who listens with half an ear. He hums his acknowledgement, knowing that Dean is mostly speaking aloud for his own benefit, and instead feasts his eyes on Dean. 

The small box sits in his pocket, waiting for an opportune time. The problem is, every moment is starting to look like an opportune moment, to the point where he has to fight not to drop down to one knee in the middle of their supermarket. Castiel slips his hand into his pocket, just so he can run his thumb over the soft, velvet surface of the box. 

He had Jack search for the correct alloys, choosing the strongest metals, including some that didn’t technically exist on earth. Sam had helped him design the delicate designs. He’d even had Rowena place a few protection charms over it, going so far as to bless the metal while it was being soldered. But the inscription on the inside? That’s all him. 

He’d waffled back and forth between several options--_Cursed or not_ featured prominently in his thoughts, but in the end, what he wants to say to Dean is simpler, and ultimately more powerful. 

_Good things do happen_. 

In the end, Dean’s not the only one who needs to be reminded of that. 

He looks at Dean. Dean, who stands up and automatically shakes out the pop and crack in his knees. Dean, who might let them out of the baking aisle sometime this century. Dean, who despite his complaints on the topic, has yet to pick out a single bottle of vanilla. Dean, who weighs the options between two bags of coconut like he’s going to be quizzed on the matter. 

He loves him, so utterly and completely, that he wonders that the colors don’t leach out from the rest of the world. 

“Finely chopped or finely shredded,” Dean mutters, glancing between the two bags. “The hell is the difference, and why does it mean that one costs a buck fifty more than the other?” He catches Castiel’s eye and smiles a bit bashfully. “Just be a second babe, promise.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel answers, fondness swelling in him at Dean’s soft grin. 

Eventually, they escape from the baking aisle and make their way to checkout. They field waves and well-wishers as they leave, and Castiel’s chest glows at the sound of “Hey DeanandCas!” He loves how people slur their names together until they become one. Like in people’s imaginations they can’t be separated. _DeanandCas_.

That thought carries him to the car. When they get in, Castiel slides closer to Dean, not stopping until he curves his hand around Dean’s knees. 

“What’s up?” Dean asks, dropping a casual kiss to Castiel’s temple as he starts the car. 

“Nothing,” Castiel answers. The edges of the box press into his thigh, waiting for the perfect moment. He doesn’t know when it will happen, but he knows that it will soon. And when it does...His stomach and chest squirms happily at the thought of Dean wearing his ring, at the thought of that kind of commitment. He was an angel and had the prospect of eternity in front of him for countless of centuries, but this...This is _forever_. 

“All right,” Dean answers, the corners of his lips ticking up. “Home?” he asks, in a question that needs no answer. 

“Of course,” Castiel answers, thumb stroking over the rough fabric of Dean’s jeans. A thought occurs to him, brought on by the stark beauty found in the backroads. “Can we take the long way?”

Dean’s laugh rumbles low and comforting through his chest as his fingers lace between Castiel’s. “Always do,” he answers, squeezing tightly before he drops their clasped hands to his knee. “Always do.”

Together, they start down the road that leads home.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

_Let’s go out past the party lights_   
_Where we can finally be alone_   
_Come with me_   
_And we can take the long way home_   
_Come with me_   
_Together_   
_We can take the long way home_

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is folks! 
> 
> Writing this was the product of several months and I'm pleased to put the finished product in front of you. 
> 
> Thanks once again to my artist czarcaustic--Your picture of Cas and Meg killed me and cured me all at the same time. 
> 
> If you want to holler at me, you can find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dothwrites), where I mostly flail about Supernatural and these two assholes. Come talk to me. I'm occasionally funny and always salty. 
> 
> Till next time. <3 doth


End file.
